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CDPailGHT DEPOSfR 



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John McCrae 



Hn iflanbecs Jfielbs 

ant) Qtbcv pocnxQ 

m 

3Lleut.«(IoL 3obn /iDcdrae, /ID. 2). 

•wattb 

Hn lEssa^ In Cbaractcr 
Sir anJ)rew /IDacpbatl 



miudtcated 



©. IP. Putnam's Sons 

"Hew l^otft anD lLonJ)on 
Cbe tinicherbocfter press 

1919 



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5v 



Copyright, 1919 

BY 

G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 



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m -4 i9i9 



Ube Iftnfclicrbocfter press, Iftew lljorf? 



ICI.A511801 



Vc^^k^UJL u^ *^^*f-^ / ^^'^'y^ f^^>yp^ .y^^^-^ 

Facsimile of an autograph copy of the poem "In Flanders Fields" 
This was probably written from memory as "grow" is used in place of "blow" in the first line 




Bote of Hc{?nowle&Gment 

Acknowledgment and thanks are due to the 
following for permission to use poems: Toronto 
Varsity; Canadian Magazine; Massey's Magazine; 
Westminster; Toronto Globe; The University 
Magazine; Punch; and The Spectator. 

The reproduction of the autograph poem is 
from a copy belonging to Carleton Noyes, Esq., 
of Cambridge, Mass., who kindly permitted its 
use. 



Contente 




In Flanders Fields 

Punch, 1915 


PAGE 

• 3 


The Anxious Dead 
The Spectator, 19 17 


. 4 


The Warrior . . . . 

University Magazine, 1907 


. 6 


ISANDLWANA 

University Magazine, 19 10 


• 7 


The Unconquered Dead 

University Magazine, 1906 


• 9 


The Captain . . . . 

University Magazine, 19 13 


II 


The Song of the Derelict . 

Canadian Magazine, 1898 


. 14 


Quebec 

University Magazine, 1908 


. 16 


Then and Now . . . . 

Massey's Magazine, 1896 


• 17 



Contents 

PAGE 

Unsolved ...... i8 

Canadian Magazine, 1895 

The Hope of My Heart . . .19 

Varsity, 1894 

Penance ...... 20 

Canadian Magazine, 1896 

Slumber Songs . .22 

Canadian Magazine, 1897 

The Oldest Drama . . . .24 

University Magazine, 1907 

Recompense ...... 25 

Canadian Magazine, 1896 

Mine Host .26 

The Westminster, 1897 

Equality ...... 27 

The Westminster, 1898 

Anarchy ...... 28 

Massey's Magazine, 1897 

Disarmament 29 

Toronto Globe, 1899 

The Dead Master . . . -30 

University Magazine, 1913 

The Harvest of the Sea . -31 

The Westminster, 1898 

[vi] 



Contents 

PAGE 

The Dying of Pere Pierre . . 32 

University Magazine, 1904 

Eventide . . . . . -34 
Canadian Magazine, 1895 

Upon Watts' Picture "Sic Transit" . 36 

University Magazine, 1904 

A Song of Comfort . . . -38 

Varsity, 1894 

The Pilgrims . , . . .40 

University Magazine, 1905 

The Shadow of the Cross . . 42 

Varsity, 1894 

The Night Cometh . . . -44 

University Magazine, 19 13 

In Due Season . . . . -45 

The Westminster, 1897 

John McCrae .... - 47 

An Essay in Character by Sir Andrew Macphail. 



[vii] 



miuetratione 



John McCrae . . . Frontispiece 

Facsimile of an Autograph Copy of the 
Poem "In Flanders Fields" 



[ix] 



11 



Facsimile OF a Sketch by John McCrae 

ON THE Back of a Card . . 76 

John McCrae and Bonneau . . 104 



Iln jflan^er0 l^el^6 



•fln iflanbers jflel^6 

IN Flanders fields the poppies blow 
Between the crosses, row on row. 
That mark our place; and in the sky 
The larks, still bravely singing, fly 
Scarce heard amid the guns below. 

We are the Dead. Short days ago 
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, 
Loved and were loved, and now we lie. 
In Flanders fields. 

Take up our quarrel with the foe: 
To you from failing hands we throw 

The torch; be yours to hold it high. 

If ye break faith with us who die 
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow 
In Flanders fields. 



l3l 



Zbc anxious Deab 

OGUNS, fall silent till the dead men hear 
Above their heads the legions pressing 
on: 
(These fought their fight in time of bitter fear, 
And died not knowing how the day had gone.) 

O flashing muzzles, pause, and let them see 
The coming dawn that streaks the sky afar; 

Then let your mighty chorus witness be 

To them, and Caesar, that we still make war. 

Tell them, O guns, that we have heard their call, 
That we have sworn, and will not turn aside. 

That we will onward till we win or fall, 
That we will keep the faith for which they 
died. 

[4] 



Ube Hnitous DeaD 

Bid them be patient, and some day, anon, 
They shall feel earth enwrapt in silence deep; 

Shall greet, in wonderment, the quiet dawn. 
And in content may turn them to their sleep. 



t5l 



HE wrought in poverty, the dull grey days, 
But with the night his little lamp-lit 
room 
Was bright with battle flame, or through a haze 
Of smoke that stung his eyes he heard the 
boom 
Of Bliicher's guns; he shared Almeida's scars, 

And from the close-packed deck, about to die, 
Looked up and saw the Birkenhead' s tall spars 
Weave wavering lines across the Southern sky: 

Or in the stifling 'tween decks, row on row. 
At Aboukir, saw how the dead men lay; 

Charged with the fiercest in Busaco's strife, 

Brave dreams are his — the flick' ring lamp burns 
low — 

Yet couraged for the battles of the day 
He goes to stand full face to face with life. 

[ 6 ] 



s 



•flsanMwana 

CARLET coats, and crash o' the hand. 
The grey of a pauper's gown, 
A soldier's grave in Zululand, 
And a woman in Brecon Town. 



My little lad for a soldier boy, 

(Mothers o' Brecon Town!) 
My eyes for tears and his for joy 

When he went from Brecon Town, 
His for the flags and the gallant sights 
His for the medals and his for the fights. 
And mine for the dreary, rainy nights 

At home in Brecon Town. 

They say he's laid beneath a tree, 
(Come back to Brecon Town!) 

Shouldn't I know? — I was there to see: 
(It's far to Brecon Town!) 

[7\ 



ITsanMwana 

It's me that keeps it trim and drest 
With a briar there and a rose by his breast — 
The English flowers he likes the best 
That I bring from Brecon Town. 

And I sit beside him — him and me, 

(We're back to Brecon Town.) 
To talk of the things that used to be 

(Grey ghosts of Brecon Town); 
I know the look o' the land and sky, 
And the bird that builds in the tree near by. 
And times I hear the jackals cry, 

And me in Brecon Town. 

Golden grey on miles of sand 

The dawn comes creeping down; 
It's day in far off Zululand 

And night in Brecon Town. 



f8 



^be innconquereb 2)eab 

"... defeated, with great loss." 

NOT we the conquered! Not to us the 
blame 
Of them that flee, of them that basely 
yield ; 
Nor ours the shout of victory, the fame 
Of them that vanquish in a stricken field. 

That day of battle in the dusty heat 

We lay and heard the bullets swish and sing 

Like scythes amid the over-ripened wheat, 
And we the harvest of their garnering. 

Some yielded, No, not we! Not we, we swear 
By these our wounds; this trench upon the hill 

Where all the shell-strewn earth is seamed and 
bare. 
Was ours to keep; and lo! we have it still. 

[91 



Zbc 'dnconauereD DeaO 

We might have yielded, even we, but death 
Came for our helper; like a sudden flood 

The crashing darkness fell; our painful breath 
We drew with gasps amid the choking blood. 

The roar fell faint and farther off, and soon 
Sank to a foolish humming in our ears, 

Like crickets in the long, hot afternoon 
Among the wheat fields of the olden years. 

Before our eyes a boundless wall of red 
Shot through by sudden streaks of jagged 
pain ! 

Then a slow-gathering darkness overhead 
And rest came on us like a quiet rain. 

Not we the conquered! Not to us the shame. 
Who hold our earthen ramparts, nor shall cease 

To hold them ever; victors we, who came 
In that fierce moment to our honoured peace. 

[lo] 



^be Captain 

1797 

T TERE all the day she swings from tide to 
£j[ tide, 

Here all night long she tugs a rusted chain, 
A masteries s hulk that was a ship of pride, 
Yet unashamed: her memories remain. 

It was Nelson in the Captain, Cape St. Vincent 
far alee, 
With the Vanguard leading s'uth'ard in the 
haze — 
Little Jervis and the Spaniards and the fight 

that was to be, 
Twenty-seven Spanish battleships, great bullies 
of the sea. 
And the Captain there to find her day of days. 

[Ill 



Ube Captain 

Right into them the Vanguard leads, but with 
a sudden tack 
The Spaniards double swiftly on their trail; 
Now Jervis overshoots his mark, like some too 

eager pack, 
He will not overtake them, haste he e'er so 
greatly back. 
But Nelson and the Captain will not fail. 

Like a tigress on her quarry leaps the Captain 
from her place. 
To lie across the fleeing squadron's way: 
Heavy odds and heavy onslaught, gun to gun 

and face to face. 
Win the ship a name of glory, win the men a 
death of grace. 
For a little hold the Spanish fleet in play. 

Ended now the Captain's battle, stricken sore 
she falls aside 
Holding still her foemen, beaten to the knee: 

[ 12] 



Ube Captain 

As the Vanguard drifted past her, "Well done, 

Captain," Jervis cried, 
Rang the cheers of men that conquered, ran the 

blood of men that died, 
And the ship had won her immortality. 

Lot here her progeny of steel and steam, 
A funnelled monster at her mooring swings: 

Still, in our hearts, we see her pennant stream, 
And "IVell done, Captain," like a trumpet rings. 



ti3] 



ZTbe Song of tbe Derelict 

YE have sung me your songs, ye have 
chanted your rimes 
(1 scorn your beguiling, O sea!) 
Ye fondle me now, but to strike me betimes. 

(A treacherous lover, the sea !) 
Once I saw as I lay, half-awash in the night 
A hull in the gloom — a quick hail — and a light 
And 1 lurched o'er to leeward and saved her for 
spite 
From the doom that ye meted to me. 

I was sister to Terrible, seventy-four, 

(Yo ho! for the swing of the sea!) 
And ye sank her in fathoms a thousand or more 

(Alas! for the might of the sea!) 
Ye taunt me and sing me her fate for a sign ! 

[ 14] 



trbe Sona of tbe 2)erelict 

What harm can ye wreak more on me or on mine? 
Ho braggart! I care not for boasting of thine — 
A fig for the wrath of the sea ! 

Some night to the lee of the land I shall steal, 

(Heigh-ho to be home from the sea!) 
No pilot but Death at the rudderless wheel, 

(None knoweth the harbor as he!) 
To lie where the slow tide creeps hither and fro 
And the shifting sand laps me around, for I know 
That my gallant old crew are in Port long ag 
For ever at peace with the sea! 



[iSl 



(Siuebec 

1608-1908 

OF old, like Helen, guerdon of the strong — 
Like Helen fair, like Helen light of 
word, — 
"The spoils unto the conquerors belong. 
Who winneth me must win me by the sword." 

Grown old, like Helen, once the jealous prize 
That strong men battled for in savage hate. 

Can she look forth with unregretful eyes, 
Where sleep Montcalm and Wolfe beside her 
gate? 



[i6] 



Zbcn anb 1Row 

BENEATH her window in the fragrant night 
I half forget how truant years have 
flown 
Since I looked up to see her chamber-light, 
Or catch, perchance, her slender shadow 
thrown 
Upon the casement; but the nodding leaves 

Sweep lazily across the unlit pane. 
And to and fro beneath the shadowy eaves, 

Like restless birds, the breath of coming rain 
Creeps, lilac-laden, up the village street 

When all is still, as if the very trees 
Were listening for the coming of her feet 
That come no more; yet, lest 1 weep, the 
breeze 
Sings some forgotten song of those old years 
Until my heart grows far too glad for tears. 

[17] 



AMID my books I lived the hurrying years, 
Disdaining kinship with my fellow 
man; 
Alike to me were human smiles and tears, 
1 cared not whither Earth's great life-stream 
ran. 
Till as 1 knelt before my mouldered shrine, 
God made me look into a woman's eyes; 
And I, who thought all earthly wisdom mine, 

Knew in a moment that the eternal skies 
Were measured but in inches, to the quest 
That lay before me in that mystic gaze. 
"Surely I have been errant: it is best 
That 1 should tread, with men their human 
ways." 
God took the teacher, ere the task was learned. 
And to my lonely books again I turned, 

[i8] 



Zbc 1bope of ni>i? Ibcart 

"Delicta juventutis et ignorantius ejus, qucBsumus ne tnemi- 
neris, D amine. " 

I LEFT, to earth, a little maiden fair, 
With locks of gold, and eyes that shamed 
the light; 
I prayed that God might have her in His care 
And sight. 

Earth's love was false; her voice, a siren's song; 

(Sweet mother-earth was but a lying name) 

The path she showed was but the path of wrong 

And shame. 

"Cast her not out!" 1 cry. God's kind words 
come — 
" Her future is with Me, as was her past; 
It shall be My good will to bring her home 
At last." 

[I9l 



penance 

MY lover died a century ago, 
Her dear heart stricken by my 
sland'rous breath. 
Wherefore the Gods forbade that I should know 
The peace of death. 

Men pass my grave, and say, '"Twere well to 

sleep. 
Like such an one, amid the uncaring dead! " 
How should they know the vigils that I keep, 
The tears 1 shed? 

Upon the grave, 1 count with lifeless breath. 
Each night, each year, the flowers that bloom 

and die. 
Deeming the leaves, that fall to dreamless death, 
More blest than I. 

[20] 



penance 

'Twas just last year — I heard two lovers pass 
So near, I caught the tender words he said: 
To-night the rain-drenched breezes sway the 
grass 

Above his head. 

That night full envious of his life was I, 
That youth and love should stand at his behest; 
To-night, 1 envy him, that he should lie 
At utter rest. 



I 21] 



Slumber Sonos 



SLEEP, little eyes 
That brim with childish tears amid thy 
play, 
Be comforted ! No grief of night can weigh 
Against the joys that throng thy coming day. 

Sleep, little heart! 

There is no place in Slumberland for tears: 
Life soon enough will bring its chilling fears 
And sorrows that will dim the after years. 
Sleep, little heart! 

II 

Ah, little eyes 

Dead blossoms of a springtime long ago. 
That life's storm crushed and left to lie below 
The benediction of the falling snow! 

[22] 



Slumber Songs 

Sleep, little heart 

That ceased so long ago its frantic beat! 
The years that come and go with silent feet 
Have naught to tell save this— that rest is sweet. 
Dear little heart. 



[23 



^be ®It)e0t Drama 

" It fell on a day, that he went out to his father to the reap- 
ers. A nd he said unto his father, My head, my head. A nd 
he said to a lad, Carry him to his mother. And . . .he 
sat on her knees till noon, and then died. And she went 
up, and laid him on the bed. ... And shut the door upon 
him and went out." 

IMMORTAL story that no mother's heart 
Ev'n yet can read, nor feel the biting 
pain 
That rent her soul! Immortal not by art 
Which makes a long past sorrow sting again 

Like grief of yesterday: but since it said 

In simplest word the truth which all may see, 

Where any mother sobs above her dead 
And plays anew the silent tragedy. 



[241 



IRecompcnec 

1SAW two sowers in Life's field at morn, 
To whom came one in angel guise and 
said, 
" Is it for labour that a man is born? 

" Lo : 1 am Ease. Come ye and eat my bread !" 
Then gladly one forsook his task undone 

And with the Tempter went his slothful way. 
The other toiled until the setting sun 
With stealing shadows blurred the dusty day. 

Ere harvest time, upon earth's peaceful breast 
Each laid him down among the unreaping 
dead. 

" Labour hath other recompense than rest. 
Else were the toiler like the fool," I said; 

"God meteth him not less, but rather more 

Because he sowed and others reaped his store." 

[25] 



riDine Ibost 

THERE stands a hostel by a travelled way; 
Life is the road and Death the worthy 
host; 
Each guest he greets, nor ever lacks to say, 
"How have ye fared?" They answer him, 
the most, 
"This lodging place is other than we sought; 

We had intended farther, but the gloom 
Came on apace, and found us ere we thought: 
Yet will we lodge. Thou hast abundant 
room." 

Within sit haggard men that speak no word. 
No fire gleams their cheerful welcome shed; 

No voice of fellowship or strife is heard 
But silence of a multitude of dead. 

"Naught can I offer ye," quoth Death, "but 
rest!" 

And to his chamber leads each tired guest. 

[26 1 



I SAW a King, who spent his life to weave 
Into a nation all his great heart 
thought, 
Unsatisfied until he should achieve 

The grand ideal that his manhood sought; 
Yet as he saw the end within his reach. 

Death took the sceptre from his failing hand, 
And all men said, " He gave his life to teach 

The task of honour to a sordid land!" 
Within his gates I saw, through all those years. 

One at his humble toil with cheery face. 
Whom (being dead) the children, half in tears. 
Remembered oft, and missed him from his 
place. 
If he be greater that his people blessed 
Than he the children loved, God knoweth best. 

[27] 



Hnarcb^ 

1SAW a city filled with lust and shame, 
Where men, like wolves, slunk through 
the grim half-light; 
And sudden, in the midst of it, there came 
One who spoke boldly for the cause of Right. 

And speaking, fell before that brutish race 
Like some poor wren that shrieking eagles tear, 

While brute Dishonour, with her bloodless face 
Stood by and smote his lips that moved in 
prayer. 

"Speak not of God! In centuries that word 
Hath not been uttered! Our own king are 
we." 

And God stretched forth his fmger as He heard 
And o'er it cast a thousand leagues of sea. 

[28] 



Disarmament 

ONE spake amid the nations, "Let us cease 
From darkening with strife the fair 
World's light, 
We who are great in war be great in peace. 
No longer let us plead the cause by might." 

But from a million British graves took birth 
A silent voice — the million spake as one — 

" If ye have righted all the wrongs of earth 
Lay by the sword ! 1 ts work and ours is done." 



29 



^be Deab fIDaster 

AMID earth's vagrant noises, he caught 
the note subHme: 
To-day around him surges from the 
silences of Time 
A flood of nobler music, like a river deep and 

broad. 
Fit song for heroes gathered in the banquet- 
hall of God. 



30 



ITbe Ibarvcet of tbe Sea 

THE earth grows white with harvest; all 
day long 
The sickles gleam, until the darkness 
weaves 
Her web of silence o'er the thankful song 
Of reapers bringing home the golden sheaves. 

The wave tops whiten on the sea fields drear, 
And men go forth at haggard dawn to reap; 

But ever 'mid the gleaners' song we hear 
The half-hushed sobbing of the hearts that 
weep. 



[31I 



^be 2)^ino of pete pierre 

"... with two other priests; the same night he died, 
and was buried by the shores of the lake that bears his name." 

Chronicle. 

" X JAY, grieve not that ye can no honour 

1 \| give 

To these poor bones that presently 
must be 
But carrion; since I have sought to live 

Upon God's earth, as He hath guided me, 
1 shall not lack! Where would ye have me lie? 

High heaven is higher than cathedral nave: 
Do men paint chancels fairer than the sky? " 

Beside the darkened lake they made his grave, 
Below the altar of the hills; and night 

Swung incense clouds of mist in creeping lines 

[32] 



tCbe Dping of pere picvvc 

That twisted through the tree-trunks, where 
the light 
Groped through the arches of the silent pines: 
And he, beside the lonely path he trod, 
Lay, tombed in splendour, in the House of God. 



33 



lEventl^e 

THE day is past and the toilers cease; 
The land grows dim 'mid the shadows 
grey, 
And hearts are glad, for the dark brings peace 
At the close of day. 

Each weary toiler, with lingering pace, 
As he homeward turns, with the long day done, 
Looks out to the west, with the light on his face 
Of the setting sun. 

Yet some see not (with their sin-dimmed eyes) 
The promise of rest in the fading light; 
But the clouds loom dark in the angry skies 
At the fall of night. 

I 34] 



Bventi&e 

And some see only a golden sky 

Where the elms their welcoming arms stretch 

wide 
To the calling rooks, as they homeward fly 
At the eventide. 

It speaks of peace that comes after strife. 
Of the rest He sends to the hearts He tried, 
Of the calm that follows the stormiest life — 
God's eventide. 



[35] 



"mpon matte' pictuie, *'Q\c ^raneit" 



" What I spent I had ; what I saved, I lost ; what I gave, 
I have." 



BUT yesterday the tourney, all the eager 
joy of life, 
The waving of the banners, and the 
rattle of the spears, 
The clash of sword and harness, and the mad- 
ness of the strife; 
To-night begin the silence and the peace of 
endless years. 

{One sings within.) 

But yesterday the glory and the prize, 
And best of all, to lay it at her feet, 

To find my guerdon in her speaking eyes: 

I grudge them not, — they pass, albeit sweet. 

[36J 



tnpon Matts' picture, ** Sic transit'* 

The ring of spears, the winning of the fight, 
The careless song, the cup, the love of friends, 

The earth in spring — to live, to feel the light — 
'Twas good the while it lasted: here it ends. 

Remain the well-wrought deed in honour done. 
The dole for Christ's dear sake, the words that 
fall 

In kindliness upon some outcast one, — 
They seemed so little: now they are my All. 



37 



T 



a Song of Comfort 

"Sleep, weary ones, while ye may — 
Sleep, oh, sleepl" 

Eugene Field. 

HRO' May time blossoms, with whisper 
low, 

The soft wind sang to the dead below: 
"Think not with regret on the Springtime's 

song 
And the task ye left while your hands were 

strong. 
The song would have ceased when the Spring 

was past, 
And the task that was joyous be weary at 

last." 

To the winter sky when the nights were long 
The tree-tops tossed with a ceaseless song: 



38] 



a Qom of Comtort 

" Do ye think with regret on the sunny days 
And the path ye left, with its untrod ways? 
The sun might sink in a storm cloud's frown 
And the path grow rough when the night came 
down." 

In the grey twilight of the autumn eves, 
It sighed as it sang through the dying leaves: 
"Ye think with regret that the world was 

bright, 
That your path was short and your task was 

light; 
The path, though short, was perhaps the best 
And the toil was sweet, that it led to rest." 



39 



ZTbe ipUGrime 

AN uphill path, sun-gleams between the 
showers, 
Where every beam that broke the leaden 
sky 
Lit other hills with fairer ways than ours; 
Some clustered graves where half our memories 
lie; 
And one grim Shadow creeping ever nigh: 
And this was Life. 

Wherein we did another's burden seek, 
The tired feet we helped upon the road, 

The hand we gave the weary and the weak, 
The miles we lightened one another's load, 

When, faint to falling, onward yet we strode: 
This too was Life. 

[40] 



Till, at the upland, as we turned to go 
Amid fair meadows, dusky in the night, 

The mists fell back upon the road below; 
Broke on our tired eyes the western light; 

The very graves were for a moment bright: 
And this was Death. 



[41] 



A 



^be Sba^ow of tbe Cross 

T the drowsy dusk when the shadows creep 
From the golden west, where the sun- 
beams sleep, 



An angel mused: " Is there good or ill 

In the mad world's heart, since on Calvary's hill 

'Round the cross a mid-day twilight fell 
That darkened earth and o'ershadowed hell?" 

Through the streets of a city the angel sped; 
Like an open scroll men's hearts he read. 

In a monarch's ear his courtiers lied 
And humble faces hid hearts of pride. 

l42] 



Ubc Sba&ow of tbe Cross 

Men's hate waxed hot, and their hearts grew 

cold, 
As they haggled and fought for the lust of gold. 

Despairing, he cried, "After all these years 

Is there naught but hatred and strife and tears?" 

He found two waifs in an attic bare; 
— A single crust was their meagre fare — 

One strove to quiet the other's cries, 

And the love-light dawned in her famished eyes 

As she kissed the child with a motherly air: 
" I don't need mine, you can have my share." 

Then the angel knew that the earthly cross 
And the sorrow and shame were not wholly loss. 

At dawn, when hushed was earth's busy hum 
And men looked not for their Christ to come. 

From the attic poor to the palace grand. 
The King and the beggar went hand in hand. 

[43] 



c 



JLbc miQbt Cometb 

OMETH the night. The wind falls low, 
The trees swing slowly to and fro: 
Around the church the headstones grey 
Cluster, like children strayed away 

But found again, and folded so. 

No chiding look doth she bestow: 
If she is glad, they cannot know; 
If ill or well they spend their day, 
Cometh the night. 

Singing or sad, intent they go; 

They do not see the shadows grow; 
"There yet is time," they lightly say, 
" Before our work aside we lay"; 

Their task is but half-done, and lo! 
Cometh the night. 

[44] 



1In 2)ue Season 

IF night should come and find me at my toil, 
When all Life's day 1 had, tho' faintly, 
wrought. 
And shallow furrows, cleft in stony soil 

Were all my labour: Shall 1 count it naught 

If only one poor gleaner, weak of hand, 
Shall pick a scanty sheaf where 1 have sown? 

"Nay, for of thee the Master doth demand 
Thy work: the harvest rests with Him alone." 



[45 1 



John rtftcCtae 

Hn Bssa^ in Cbaracter 
Sir Bn&rew /IDacpbail 



[47] 



3obn flDcCrae 



" In Flanders Fields," the piece of verse from 
which this little book takes its title, first appeared 
in Pmwc/j in the issue of December 8th, 191 5. At 
the time I was living in Flanders at a convent in 
front of Locre, in shelter of Kemmel Hill, which 
lies seven miles south and slightly west of Ypres. 
The piece bore no signature, but it was unmistak- 
ably from the hand of John McCrae. 

From this convent of women which was the 
headquarters of the 6th Canadian Field Ambu- 
lance, 1 wrote to John McCrae, who was then 
at Boulogne, accusing him of the authorship, 
and furnished him with evidence. From mem- 
ory — since at the front one carries one book 
only— 1 quoted to him another piece of his own 
verse, entitled "The Night Cometh": 

"Cometh the night. The wind falls low, 

The trees swing slowly to and fro ; 

Around the church the headstones grey 
Cluster, like children stray'd away, 

But found again, and folded so." 

4 [49] 



Hn jflan^ers jfielDs 

It will be observed at once by reference to the 
text that in form the two poems are identical. 
They contain the same number of lines and 
feet as surely all sonnets do. Each travels 
upon two rhymes with the members of a broken 
couplet in widely separated refrain. To the 
casual reader this much is obvious, but there are 
many subtleties in the verse which made the 
authorship inevitable. It was a form upon 
which he had worked for years, and made his 
own. When the moment arrived the medium 
was ready. No other medium could have so 
well conveyed the thought. 

This familiarity with his verse was not a 
matter of accident. For many years 1 was 
editor of the University Magaiine, and those 
who are curious about such things may discover 
that one half of the poems contained in this 
little book were first published upon its pages. 
This magazine had its origin in McGill Univer- 
sity, Montreal, in the year 1902. Four years 
later its borders were enlarged to the wider term, 
and it strove to express an educated opinion 
upon questions immediately concerning Canada, 
and to treat freely in a literary way all matters 
which have to do with politics, industry, philo- 
sophy, science, and art. 

To this magazine during those years John 
McCrae contributed all his verse. It was there- 
[50] 



fn jflan^er6 fields 

fore not unseemly that I should have written 
to him, when "In Flanders Fields" appeared in 
Punch. Amongst his papers 1 find my poor 
letter, and many others of which something 
more might be made if one were concerned 
merely with the literary side of his life rather 
than with his life itself. Two references will be 
enough. Early in 1905 he offered "The Pil- 
grims" for publication. 1 notified him of the 
place assigned to it in the magazine, and added 
a few words of appreciation, and after all these 
years it has come back to me. 

The letter is dated February 9th, 1905, and 
reads: "I place the poem next to my own buf- 
foonery. It is the real stufi" of poetry. How 
did you make it? What have you to do with 
medicine? I was charmed with it: the thought 
high, the image perfect, the expression com- 
plete; not too reticent, not too full. Videntes 
autem stellam gavisi sunt gaudio magno valde. 
In our own tongue, — 'slainte filidh.'" To his 
mother he wrote, "the Latin is translatable 
as, ' seeing the star they rejoiced with exceeding 
gladness.'" For the benefit of those whose 
education has proceeded no further than the 
Latin, it may be explained that the two last 
words mean, " Hail to the poet." 

To the inexperienced there is something por- 
tentous about an appearance in print and some- 
[51] 



Ifn 3flan&er6 3fiel&s 

thing mysterious about the business of an editor. 
A legend has already grown up around the pub- 
lication of " In Flanders Fields" in Punch . The 
truth is, " that the poem was offered in the usual 
way and accepted; that is all." The usual way 
of offering a piece to an editor is to put it in an 
envelope with a postage stamp outside to carry 
it there, and a stamp inside to carry it back. 
Nothing else helps. 

An editor is merely a man who knows his 
right hand from his left, good from evil, having 
the honesty of a kitchen cook who will not 
spoil his confection by favour for a friend. Fear 
of a foe is not a temptation, since editors are 
too humble and harmless to have any. There 
are of course certain slight offices which an editor 
can render, especially to those whose writings 
he does not intend to print, but John McCrae 
required none of these. His work was finished 
to the last point. He would bring his piece in 
his hand and put it on the table. A wise editor 
knows when to keep his mouth shut; but now 
I am free to say that he never understood the 
nicety of the semi-colon, and his writing was 
too heavily stopped. 

He was not of those who might say, — take 
it or leave it; but rather, — look how perfect it 
is; and it was so. Also he was the first to re- 
cognize that an editor has some rights and pre- 
[52] 



tin iflanOers jfiel^s 

judices, that certain words make him sick; that 
certain other words he reserves for his own use, 
— "meticulous" once a year, "adscititious" 
once in a life time. This explains why editors 
write so little. In the end, out of mere good 
nature, or seeing the futility of it all, they 
contribute their words to contributors and write 
no more. 

The volume of verse as here printed is small. 
The volume might be enlarged; it would not be 
improved. To estimate the value and institute 
a comparison of those herein set forth would be 
a congenial but useless task, which may well be 
left to those whose profession it is to offer instruc- 
tion to the young. To say that "In Flanders 
Fields" is not the best would involve one in 
controversy. It did give expression to a mood 
which at the time was universal, and will re- 
main as a permanent record when the mood is 
passed away. 

The poem was first called to my attention by 
a Sapper officer, then Major, now Brigadier. 
He brought the paper in his hand from his billet 
in Dranoutre. It was printed on page 468, and 
Mr. Punch will be glad to be told that, in his 
annual index, in the issue of December 29th, 191 5, 
he has mispelled the author's name, which is 
perhaps the only mistake he ever made. This 
officer could himself weave the sonnet with 
[53] 



Hn jflanbers fields 

deft fingers, and he pointed out many deep 
things. It is to the sappers the army always 
goes for "technical material." 

The poem, he explained, consists of thirteen 
lines in iambic tetrameter and two lines of two 
iambics each; in all, one line more than the 
sonnet's count. There are two rhymes only, 
since the short lines must be considered blank, 
and are, in fact, identical. But it is a difficult 
mode. It is true, he allowed, that the octet 
of the sonnet has only two rhymes, but these 
recur only four times, and the liberty of the 
sestet tempers its despotism, — which 1 thought 
a pretty phrase. He pointed out the dangers 
inherent in a restricted rhyme, and cited the 
case of Browning, the great rhymster, who was 
prone to resort to any rhyme, and frequently 
ended in absurdity, finding it easier to make a 
new verse than to make an end. 

At great length — but the December evenings 
in Flanders are long, how long. O Lord! — this 
Sapper officer demonstrated the skill with which 
the rhymes are chosen. They are vocalized. 
Consonant endings would spoil the whole effect. 
They reiterate O and I, not the O of pain and 
the Ay of assent, but the O of wonder, of hope, 
of aspiration; and the 1 of personal pride, of 
jealous immortality, of the Ego against the 
Universe. They are, he went on to expound, a 
[54] 



ITn flankers fields 

recurrence of the ancient question: "How are 
the dead raised, and with what body do they 
come?" "How shall I bear my light across?" 
and of the defiant cry: " If Christ be not raised, 
then is our faith vain." 

The theme has three phases: the first a 
calm, a deadly calm, opening statement in five 
lines; the second in four lines, an explanation, 
a regret, a reiteration of the first; the third, 
without preliminary crescendo, breaking out 
into passionate adjuration in vivid metaphor, 
a poignant appeal which is at qnce a blessing 
and a curse. In the closing line is a satisfying 
return to the first phase, — and the thing is done. 
One is so often reminded of the poverty of men's 
invention, their best being so incomplete, their 
greatest so trivial, that one welcomes what — 
this Sapper officer surmised — may become a 
new and fixed mode of expression in verse. 

As to the theme itself — 1 am using his words: 
what is his is mine; what is mine is his — the 
interest is universal. The dead, still conscious, 
fallen in a noble cause, see their graves over- 
blown in a riot of poppy bloom. The poppy is 
the emblem of sleep. The dead desire to sleep 
undisturbed, but yet curiously take an interest 
in passing events. They regret that they have 
not been permitted to live out their life to its 
normal end. They call on the living to finish 

[55] 



Ifn jflan&ers fields 

their task, else they shall not sink into that 
complete repose which they desire, in spite of 
the balm of the poppy. Formalists may pro- 
test that the poet is not sincere, since it is the 
seed and not the flower that produces sleep. 
They might as well object that the poet has no 
right to impersonate the dead. We common 
folk know better. We know that in personating 
the dear dead, and calling in bell-like tones on 
the inarticulate living, the poet shall be enabled 
to break the lightnings of the Beast, and thereby 
he, being himself, alas! dead, yet speaketh; 
and shall speak, to ones and twos and a host. 
As it is written in resonant bronze: vivos . 

voce . MORTUOS . PLANGO . FULGURA . FRANCO: 

words cast by this officer upon a church bell 
which still rings in far away Orwell in memory 
of his father — and of mine. 

By this time the little room was cold. For 
some reason the guns had awakened in the 
Salient. An Indian trooper who had just come 
up, and did not yet know the orders, blew 
"Lights out," — on a cavalry trumpet. The 
sappers work by night. The officer turned and 
went his way to his accursed trenches, leaving 
the verse with me. 

John McCrae witnessed only once the raw 
earth of Flanders hide its shame in the warm 
scarlet glory of the poppy. Others have watched 
[56] 



Hn 3flan^er5 jfielba 

this resurrection of the flowers in four successive 
seasons, a fresh miracle every time it occurs. 
Also they have observed the rows of crosses 
lengthen, the torch thrown, caught, and carried 
to victory. The dead may sleep. We have not 
broken faith with them. 

It is little wonder then that "In Flanders 
Fields " has become the poem of the army. The 
soldiers have learned it with their hearts, which 
is quite a different thing from committing it 
to memory. It circulates, as a song should 
circulate, by the living word of mouth, not by 
printed characters. That is the true test of 
poetry, — its insistence on making itself learnt 
by heart. The army has varied the text; but 
each variation only serves to reveal more clearly 
the mind of the maker. The army says, 
"Among the crosses"; "felt dawn and sunset 
glow"; "Lived and were loved." The army 
may be right: it usually is. 

Nor has any piece of verse in recent years been 
more widely known in the civilian world. It 
was used on every platform from which men 
were being adjured to adventure their lives or 
their riches in the great trial through which 
the present generation has passed. Many 
"replies" have been made. The best I have 
seen was written in the New York Evening Post. 
None but those who were prepared to die before 
[57] 



Mltb tbe Guns 

Vimy Ridge that early April day of 191 6 will 
ever feel fully the great truth of Mr. Lillard's 
opening lines, as they speak for all Americans: 

"Rest ye in peace, ye Flanders dead. 
The fight that ye so bravely led 
We've taken up." 

They did — and bravely. They heard the cry 
— " If ye break faith, we shall not sleep." 

II 

If there was nothing remarkable about the 
publication of "In Flanders Fields," there was 
something momentous in the moment of writ- 
ing it. And yet it was a sure instinct which 
prompted the writer to send it to Punch. A 
rational man wishes to know the news of the 
world in which he lives; and if he is interested 
in life, he is eager to know how men feel and 
comport themselves amongst the events which 
are passing. For this purpose Punch is the 
great newspaper of the world, and these lines 
describe better than any other how men felt 
in that great moment. 

It was in April, 1915. The enemy was in 
the full cry of victory. All that remained for 
him was to occupy Paris, as once he did before, 
and to seize the Channel ports. Then France, 
England, and the world were doomed. All 
[58] 



Mitb tbe (Buns 

winter the German had spent in repairing his 
plans, which had gone somewhat awry on the 
Marne. He had devised his final stroke, and 
it fell upon the Canadians at Ypres. This 
battle, known as the second battle of Ypres, 
culminated on April 22nd, but it really extended 
over the whole month. 

The inner history of war is written from the 
recorded impressions of men who have endured 
it. John McCrae in a series of letters to his 
mother, cast in the form of a diary, has set 
down in words the impressions which this event 
of the war made upon a peculiarly sensitive 
mind. The account is here transcribed without 
any attempt at "amplification," or "clarifying" 
by notes upon incidents or references to places. 
These are only too well known. 

Friday, April 23rd, 1915. 

As we moved up last evening, there was heavy firing 
about 4.30 on our left, the hour at which the general attack 
with gas was made when the French line broke. We could 
see the shells bursting over Ypres, and in a small village 

to our left, meeting General , C.R.A., of one of the 

divisions, he ordered us to halt for orders. We sent for- 
ward notifications to our Headquarters, and sent out 
orderlies to get in touch with the batteries of the farther 
forward brigades already in action. The story of these 
guns will be read elsewhere. They had a tough time, but 
got away safely, and did wonderful service. One battery 
fired in two opposite directions at once, and both batteries 

[59] 



Mitb tbe Oms 

fired at point blank, open sights, at Germans in the open. 
They were at times quite without infantry on their front, 
for their position was behind the French to the left of the 
British line. 

As we sat on the road we began to see the French 
stragglers — men without arms, wounded men, teams, 
wagons, civilians, refugees — some by the roads, some across 
country, all talking, shouting — the very picture of debacle. 
I must say they were the "tag enders" of a fighting line 
rather than the line itself. They streamed on, and shouted 
to us scraps of not too inspiriting information while we 
stood and took our medicine, and picked out gun positions 
in the fields in case we had to go in there and then. The 
men were splendid ; not a word ; not a shake, and it was 
a terrific test. Traffic whizzed by — ambulances, trans- 
port, ammunition, supplies, despatch riders — and the 
shells thundered into the town, or burst high in the air 
nearer us, and the refugees streamed. Women, old men, 
little children, hopeless, tearful, quiet or excited, tired, 
dodging the traffic, — and the wounded in singles or in 
groups. Here and there I could give a momentary help, 
and the ambulances picked up as they could. So the 
cold moonlight night wore on — no change save that the 
towers of Ypres showed up against the glare of the city 
burning; and the shells still sailed in. 

At 9.30 our ammunition column (the part that had 

been "in") appeared. Major had waited, like Casa- 

bianca, for orders until the Germans were 500 yards away; 
then he started, getting safely away save for one wagon 
lost, and some casualties in men and horses. He found 
our column, and we prepared to send forward ammunition 
as soon as we could learn where the batteries had taken 
up position in retiring, for retire they had to. Eleven, 
twelve, and finally grey day broke, and we still waited. 
At 3.45 word came to go in and support a French counter- 
[60] 



Mitb tbe (Buns 

attack at 4.30 a.m. Hastily we got the order spread; it 
was 4 A.M. and three miles to go. 

Of one's feelings all this night — of the asphyxiated French 
soldiers — of the women and children — of the cheery, 
steady British reinforcements that moved up quietly 
past us, going up, not back — I could write, but you can 
imagine. 

We took the road at once, and went up at the gallop. 
The Colonel rode ahead to scout a position (we had only 
four guns, part of the ammunition column, and the brigade 
staff; the ist and 4th batteries were back in reserve at 
our last billet). Along the roads we went, and made our 
place on time, pulled up for ten minutes just short of the 
position, where I put Bonfire [his horse] with my groom 
in a farmyard, and went forward on foot — only a quarter 
of a mile or so — then we advanced. Bonfire had soon to 
move; a shell killed a horse about four yards away from 
him, and he wisely took other ground. Meantime we 
went on into the position we were to occupy for seventeen 
days, though we could not guess that. I can hardly say 
more than that it was near the Yser Canal. 

We got into action at once, under heavy gunfire. We 
were to the left entirely of the British line, and be- 
hind French troops, and so we remained for eight days. 
A Colonel of the R.A., known to fame, joined us and 
camped with us; he was our link with the French Head- 
quarters, and was in local command of the guns in this 
locality. When he left us eight days later he said, "I am 
glad to get out of this hell-hole." He was a great comfort 
to us, for he is very capable, and the entire battle was 
largely fought "on our own," following the requests of the 
Infantry on our front, and scarcely guided by our own 
staff at all. We at once set out to register our targets, 
and almost at once had to get into steady firing on quite a 
large sector of front. We dug in the guns as quickly as we 
[61 ] 



Mltb tbe (Buns 

could, and took as Headquarters some infantry trenches 
already sunk on a ridge near the canal. We were sub- 
ject from the first to a steady and accurate shelling, 
for we were all but in sight, as were the German trenches 
about 2000 yards to our front. At times the fire would 
come in salvos quickly repeated. Bursts of fire would be 
made for ten or fifteen minutes at a time. We got all 
varieties of projectile, from 3 inch to 8 inch, or perhaps 10 
inch; the small ones usually as air bursts, the larger 
percussion and air, and the heaviest percussion only. 

My work began almost from the start — steady but 
never overwhelming, except perhaps once for a few minutes. 
A little cottage behind our ridge served as a cook-house, 
but was so heavily hit the second day that we had to be 
chary of it. During bursts of fire I usually took the back 
slope of the sharply crested ridge for what shelter it offered. 
At 3 our 1st and 4th arrived, and went into action at 
once a few hundred yards in our rear. Wires were at 
once put out, to be cut by shells hundreds and hundreds 
of times, but always repaired by our indefatigable line- 
men. So the day wore on; in the night the shelling still 
kept up: three different German attacks were made and 
repulsed. If we suffered by being close up, the Germans 
suffered from us, for already tales of good shooting came 
down to us. I got some sleep despite the constant firing, 
for we had none last night. 

Saturday, April 24th, ipiS- 

Behold us now anything less than two miles north of 
Ypres on the west side of the canal; this runs north, each 
bank flanked with higl^ elms, with bare trunks of the famil- 
iar Netherlands type. A few yards to the West a main 
road runs, likewise bordered; the Censor will allow me to 
say that on the high bank between these we had our head- 
quarters; the ridge is perhaps fifteen to twenty feet high, 

f62l 



Mitb tbe Guns 

and slopes forward fifty yards to the water, the back is 
more steep, and slopes quickly to a little subsidiary water 
way, deep but dirty. Where the guns were I shall not say; 
but they were not far, and the German aeroplanes that 
viewed us daily with all but impunity knew very well. 
A road crossed over the canal, and interrupted the ridge; 
across the road from us was our billet — the place we cooked 
in, at least, and where we usually took our meals. Look- 
ing to the south between the trees, we could see the ruins 
of the city : to the front on the sky line, with rolling ground 
in the front, pitted by French trenches, the German 
lines; to the left front, several farms and a windmill, 
and farther left, again near the canal, thicker trees and 
more farms. The farms and windmills were soon burnt. 
Several farms we used for observing posts were also quickly 
burnt during the next three or four days. All along be- 
hind us at varying distances French and British guns; 
the flashes at night lit up the sky. 

These high trees were at once a protection and a danger. 
Shells that struck them were usually destructive. When 
we came in the foliage was still very thin. Along the 
road, which was constantly shelled "on spec" by the 
Germans, one saw all the sights of war: wounded men 
limping or carried, ambulances, trains of supply, troops, 
army mules, and tragedies. I saw one bicycle orderly: a 
shell exploded and he seemed to pedal on for eight or ten 
revolutions and then collapsed in a heap — dead. Strag- 
gling soldiers would be killed or wounded, horses also, until 
it got to be a nightmare. I used to shudder every time I 
saw wagons or troops on that road. My dugout looked 
out on it. I got a square hole, 8 by 8, dug in the side of 
the hill (west), roofed over with remnants to keep out the 
rain, and a little sandbag parapet on the back to prevent 
pieces of "back-kick shells " from coming in, or prematures 
from our own or the French guns for that matter. Some 

[63] 



mitl) tbe auns 

straw on the floor completed it. The ground was treach- 
erous and a slip the first night nearly buried . So 

we had to be content with walls straight up and down, 
and trust to the height of the bank for safety. All places 
along the bank were more or less alike, all squirrel holes. 

This morning we supported a heavy French attack at 
4.30; there had been three German attacks in the night, 
and everyone was tired. We got heavily shelled. In all 
eight or ten of our trees were cut by shells — cut right off, 
the upper part of the tree subsiding heavily and straight 
down, as a usual thing. One would think a piece a foot 
long was just instantly cut out; and these trees were 
about 18 inches in diameter. The gas fumes came very 
heavily: some blew down from the infantry trenches, 
some came from the shells: one's eyes smarted, and breath- 
ing was very laboured. Up to noon to-day we fired 2500 
rounds. Last night Col. Morrison and I slept at a French 
Colonel's headquarters near by, and in the night our room 
was filled up with wounded. I woke up and shared my 
bed with a chap with "a wounded leg and a chill." Prob- 
ably thirty wounded were brought into the one little room. 

Col. , R.A., kept us in communication with the 

French General in whose command we were. I bunked 
down in the trench on the top of the ridge: the sky was 
red with the glare of the city still burning, and we could 
hear the almost constant procession of large shells sailing 
over from our left front into the city : the crashes of their 
explosion shook the ground where we were. After a ter- 
ribly hard day, professionally and otherwise, I slept well, 
but it rained and the trench was awfully muddy and wet. 

Sunday, April 2Sth, 1915. 

The weather brightened up, and we got at it again. 
This day we had several heavy attacks, prefaced by heavy 
artillery fire; these bursts of fire would result in our get- 

[64] 



mitb tbe ©una 

ting loo to 150 rounds right on us or nearby: the heavier 
our fire (which was on the trenches entirely) the heavier 
theirs. 

Our food supply came up at dusk in wagons, and the 
water was any we could get, but of course treated with 
chloride of lime. The ammunition had to be brought 
down the roads at the gallop, and the more firing the more 
wagons. The men would quickly carry the rounds to 
the guns, as the wagons had to halt behind our hill. The 
good old horses would swing around at the gallop, pull up 
in an instant, and stand puffing and blowing, but with 
their heads up, as if to say, "Wasn't that well done?" 
It makes you want to kiss their dear old noses, and assure 
them of a peaceful pasture once more. To-day we got 
our dressing station dugout complete, and slept there at 
night. 

Three farms in succession burned on our front — colour 
in the otherwise dark. The flashes of shells over the 
front and rear in all directions. The city still burning 
and the procession still going on. I dressed a number 
of French wounded; one Turco prayed to Allah and 
Mohammed all the time I was dressing his wound. On 
the front field one can see the dead lying here and there, 
and in places where an assault has been they lie very thick 
on the front slopes of the German trenches. Our tele- 
phone wagon team hit by a shell; two horses killed and 
another wounded. I did what I could for the wounded one, 
and he subsequently got well. This night, beginning after 
dark, we got a terrible shelUng, which kept up till 2 or 3 
in the morning. Finally I got to sleep, though it was still 
going on. We must have got a couple of hundred rounds, 
in single or pairs. Every one burst over us, would light 
up the dugout, and every hit in front would shake the 
ground and bring down small bits of earth on us, or else 
the earth thrown into the air by the explosion would 

S [65] 



Mttb tbe (Buns 

come spattering down on our roof, and into the front of 
the dugout. Col. Morrison tried the mess house, but the 
shelling was too heavy, and he and the adjutant joined 
Cosgrave and me, and we four spent an anxious night 
there in the dark. One officer was on watch "on the 
bridge" (as we called the trench at the top of the ridge) 
with the telephones. 

Monday, April 26th, 1915. 

Another day of heavy actions, but last night much 
French and British artillery has come in, and the place is 
thick with Germans. There are many prematures (with 
so much firing) but the pieces are usually spread before 
they get to us. It is disquieting, however, I must say. 
And all the time the birds sing in the trees over our heads. 
Yesterday up to noon we fired 3000 rounds for the twenty- 
four hours; to-day we have fired much less, but we have 
registered fresh fronts, and burned some farms behind the 
German trenches. About six the fire died down, and we 
had a peaceful evening and night, and Cosgrave and I in 
the dugout made good use of it. The Colonel has an 
individual dugout, and Dodds sleeps "topside" in the 
trench. To all this, put in a background of anxiety lest 
the line break, for we are just where it broke before. 

Tuesday, April 27th, 1915. 

This morning again registering batteries on new points. 
At 1.30 a heavy attack was prepared by the French and 
ourselves. The fire was very heavy for half an hour and 
the enemv got busy too. I had to cross over to the bat- 
tenes duri'^g it, an unpleasant journey. More gas at- 
tacks in the afternoon. The French did not appear to 
P'-ess the attack hard, but in the light of subsequent 
events it probably was only a feint. It seems likely that 
about this time our people began to thin out the artillery 

[66] 



Mttb tbe Ouns 

again for use elsewhere; but this did not at once become 
apparent. At night usually the heavies farther back 
take up the story, and there is a duel. The Germans 
fire on our roads after dark to catch reliefs and transport. 
I suppose ours do the same. 

Wednesday, April 28th, 1915. 

I have to confess to an excellent sleep last night. At 
times anxiety says, "I don't want a meal," but experience 
says "you need your food," so I attend regularly to that. 
The billet is not too safe either. Much German air re- 
connaissance over us, and heavy firing from both sides 
during the day. At 6.45 we again prepared a heavy artil- 
lery attack, but the infantry made little attempt to go on. 
We are perhaps the "chopping block," and our "prepara- 
tions" may be chiefly designed to prevent detachments 
of troops being sent from our front elsewhere. 

I have said nothing of what goes on on our right and 
left; but it is equally part and parcel of the whole game; 
this eight mile front is constantly heavily engaged. At 
intervals, too, they bombard Ypres. Our back lines, too, 
have to be constantly shifted on account of shell fire, and 
we have desultory but constant losses there. In the 
evening rifle fire gets more frequent, and bullets are con- 
stantly singing over us. Some of them are probably 
ricochets, for we are 1800 yards, or nearly, from the 
nearest German trench. 

Thursday, April 29th, 1915. 

This morning our billet was hit. We fire less these 
days, but still a good deal. There was a heavy French 
attack on our left. The "gas" attacks can be seen from 
here. The yellow cloud rising up is for us a signal to open, 
and we do. The wind is from our side to-day, and a good 
thing it is. Several days ago during the firing a big Oxford- 

[67] 



Mitb tbe Guns 

grey dog, with beautiful brown eyes, came to us in a 
panic. He ran to me, and pressed his head hard against 
my leg. So I got him a safe place and he sticks by us. 
We call him Fleabag, for he looks like it. 

This night they shelled us again heavily for some hours — 
the same shorts, hits, overs on percussion, and great 
yellow-green air bursts. One feels awfully irritated by 
the constant din — a mixture of anger and apprehension. 

Friday, April 30th, 1915. 

Thick mist this morning, and relative quietness; but 
before it cleared the Germans started again to shell us. 
At ID it cleared, and from 10 to 2 we fired constantly. 
The French advanced, and took some ground on our left 
front and a batch of prisoners. This was at a place we 
call Twin Farms. Our men looked curiously at the Boches 
as they were marched through. Some better activity in 
the afternoon by the Allies' aeroplanes. The German 
planes have had it too much their way lately. Many of 
to-day's shells have been very large — 10 or 12 inch; a 
lot of tremendous holes dug in the fields just behind us. 

Saturday, May ist, 1915. 

May day! Heavy bombardment at intervals through 
the day. Another heavy artillery preparation at 3.25, 
but no French advance. We fail to understand why, but 
orders go. We suffered somewhat during the day. 
Through the evening and night heavy firing at intervals. 

Sunday, May 2nd, 1915. 

Heavy gunfire again this morning. Lieut. H was 

killed at the guns. His diary's last words were, "It has 
quieted a little and I shall try to get a good sleep." I 
said the Committal Service over him, as well as I could 
from memory. A soldier's death! Batteries again re- 
[68 1 



mitb tbe (Buns 

gistering barrages or barriers of fire at set ranges. At 
3 the Germans attacked, preceded by gas clouds. Fight- 
ing went on for an hour and a half, during which their 
guns hammered heavily with some loss to us. The French 
lines are very uneasy, and we are correspondingly anx- 
ious. The infantry fire was very heavy, and we fired 
incessantly, keeping on into the night. Despite the 
heavy fire I got asleep at 12, and slept until daylight which 

comes at 3. 

Monday, May 3rd, 19 15. 

A clear morning, and the accursed German aeroplanes 
over our positions again. They are usually fired at, but 
no luck. To-day a shell on our hill dug out a cannon 
ball about six inches in diameter — probably of Napoleon's 
or earlier times — heavily rusted. A German attack 
began, but half an hour of artillery fire drove it back. 
Major , R.A., was up forward, and could see the Ger- 
man reserves. Our 4th was turned on: first round 100 
over; shortened and went into gunfire, and his report was 
that the effect was perfect. The same occurred again in 
the evening, and again at midnight. The Germans were 
reported to be constantly massing for attack, and we as 
constantly "went to them." The German guns shelled 
us as usual at intervals. This must get very tiresome to 
read; but through it all, it must be mentioned that the 
constantly broken communications have to be mended, 
rations and ammunition brought up, the wounded to be 
dressed and got away. Our dugouts have the French 
Engineers and French Infantry next door by turns. They 
march in and out. The back of the hill is a network of 
wires, so that one has to go carefully. 

Tuesday, May 4th, 1915. 

Despite intermittent shelling and some casualties the 
quietest day yet; but we live in an uneasy atfnosphere as 

[69I 



Mitb tbe Guns 

German attacks are constantly being projected, and our 
communications are interrupted and scrappy. We get 
no news of any sort and have just to sit tight and hold on. 
Evening closed in rainy and dark. Our dugout is very 
slenderly provided against it, and we get pretty wet and 
very dirty. In the quieter morning hours we get a chance 
of a wash and occasionally a shave. 

Wednesday, May sth, 1915. 

Heavily hammered in the morning from 7 to 9, but at 
9 it let up; the sun came out and things looked better. 
Evidently our Hne has again been thinned of artillery and 
the requisite minimum to hold is left. There were German 
attacks to our right, just out of our area. Later on we 
and they both fired heavily, the first battery getting it 
especially hot. The planes over us again and again, to 
coach the guns. An attack expected at dusk, but it turned 
only to heavy night shelling, so that with our fire, theirs, 
and the infantry cracking away constantly, we got sleep 
in small quantity all night; bullets whizzing over us con- 
stantly. Heavy rain from 5 to 8, and everything wet 
except the far-in corner of the dugout, where we mass 
our things to keep them as dry as we may. 

Thursday, May 6th, 1915. 
After the rain a bright morning; the leaves and blos- 
soms are coming out. We ascribe our quietude to a wel- 
come flock of allied planes which are over this morning. 
The Germans attacked at eleven, and again at six in the 
afternoon, each meaning a waking up of heavy artillery 
on the whole frorit. In the evening we had a little rain 
at intervals, but it was light. 

Friday, May 7th, 1915. 

A bright morning early, but clouded over later. The 
Germans gave it to us very heavily. There was heavy 

[70] 



Mitb tbe (Buns 

fighting to the south-east of us. Two attacks or threats, 
and we went in again. 

Saturday, May 8th, 1915. 

For the last three days we have been under British 
divisional control, and supporting our own men who have 
been put farther to the left, till they are almost in front of 
us. It is an added comfort. We have four officers out 
with various infantry regiments for observation and co- 
operation; they have to stick it in trenches, as all the 
houses and barns are burned. The whole front is con- 
stantly ablaze with big gunfire; the racket never ceases. 
We have now to do most of the work for our left, as our 
line appears to be much thinner than it was. A German 
attack followed the sheUing at 7; we were fighting hard 
till 12, and less regularly all the afternoon. We suffered 
much, and at one time were down to seven guns. Of these 
two were smoking at every joint, and the levers were so 
hot that the gunners used sacking for their hands. The 
pace is now much hotter, and the needs of the infantry for 
fire more insistent. The guns are in bad shape by reason 
of dirt, injuries, and heat. The wind fortunately blows 
from us, so there is no gas, but the attacks are still very 
heavy. Evening brought a little quiet, but very disquiet- 
ing news (which afterwards proved untrue) ; and we had 
to face a possible retirement. You may imagine our state 
of mind, unable to get anything sure in the uncertainty, 
except that we should stick out as long as the guns would 
fire, and we could fire them. That sort of night brings a 
man down to his "bare skin, " I promise you. The night 
was very cold, and not a cheerful one. 

Sunday, May gth, 1915. 

At 4 we were ordered to get ready to move, and the 
Adjutant picked out new retirement positions; but a 
little later better news came, and the daylight and sun 

[71] 



Mttb tbe Owns 

revived us a bit. As I sat in my dugout a little white and 
black dog with tan spots bolted in over the parapet, during 
heavy firing, and going to the farthest corner began to dig 
furiously. Having scraped out a pathetic little hole two 
inches deep, she sat down and shook, looking most plain- 
tively at me. A few minutes later, her owner came along, 
a French soldier. Bissac was her name, but she would 
not leave me at the time. When I sat down a little later, 
she stole out and shyly crawled in between me and the 
wall; she stayed by me all day, and I hope got later on to 
safe quarters. 

Firing kept up all day. In thirty hours we had fired 
3600 rounds, and at times with seven, eight, or nine guns ; 
our wire cut and repaired eighteen times. Orders came 
to move, and we got ready. At dusk we got the guns out 
by hand, and all batteries assembled at a given spot in 
comparative safety. We were much afraid they would 
open on us, for at 10 o'clock they gave us 100 or 150 
rounds, hitting the trench parapet again and again. How- 
ever, we were up the road, the last wagon half a mile 
away before they opened. One burst near me, and splat- 
tered some pieces around, but we got clear, and by 12 
were out of the usual fire zone. Marched all night, tired 
as could be, but happy to be clear. 

I was glad to get on dear old Bonfire again. We made 
about sixteen miles, and got to our billets at dawn. I 
had three or four hours' sleep, and arose to a peaceful 
breakfast. We shall go back to the line elsewhere very 
soon, but it is a present relief, and the next place is sure 
to be better, for it cannot be worse. Much of this nar- 
rative is bald and plain, but it tells our part in a really 
great battle. I have only had hasty notes to go by; in 
conversation there is much one could say that would be 
of greater interest. Heard of the Lusitania disaster on 
our road out. A terrible affair! 

[72] 



Mttb tbe ems 

Here ends the account of his part in this 
memorable battle, and here follow some general 
observations upon the experience: 

Northern France, May loth, 1915. 

We got here to refit and rest this morning at 4, having 
marched last night at 10. The general impression in my 
mind is of a nightmare. We have been in the most bitter 
of fights. For seventeen days and seventeen nights none 
of us have had our clothes off, nor our boots even, except 
occasionally. In all that time while I was awake, gunfire 
and rifle fire never ceased for sixty seconds, and it was 
sticking to our utmost by a weak line all but ready to 
break, knowing nothing of what was going on, and de- 
pressed by reports of anxious infantry. The men and the 
divisions are worthy of all praise that can be given. It 
did not end in four days when many of our infantry were 
taken out. It kept on at fever heat till yesterday. 

This, of course, is the second battle of Ypres, or the 
battle of the Yser, I do not know which. At one time we 
were down to seven guns, but those guns were smoking 
at every joint, the gunners using cloth to handle the 
breech levers because of the heat. We had three batteries 
in action with four guns added from the other units. Our 
casualties were half the number of men in the firing line. 
The horse lines and the wagon lines farther back suffered 
less, but the Brigade list has gone far higher than any 
artillery normal. I know one brigade R.A. that was in 
the Mons retreat and had about the same. I have done 
what fell to hand. My clothes, boots, kit, and dugout 
at various times were sadly bloody. Two of our batteries 
are reduced to two officers each. We have had constant 
accurate shell-fire, but we have given back no less. And 
behind it all was the constant background of the sights of 

[73] 



Mitb tbe ©uns 

the dead, the wounded, the maimed, and a terrible anxiety 
lest the line should give way. 

During all this time, we have been behind French troops, 
and only helping our own people by oblique fire when 
necessary. Our horses have suffered heavily too. Bon- 
fire had a light wound from a piece of shell ; it is healing and 
the dear old fellow is very fit. Had my first ride for 
seventeen days last night. We never saw horses but with 
the wagons bringing up the ammunition. When fire was 
hottest they had to come two miles on a road terribly 
swept, and they did it magnificently. But how tired we 
are! Weary in body and wearier in mind. None of our 
men went off their heads but men in units nearby did — 
and no wonder. 

Prance. May 12th, 1915. 

I am glad you had your mind at rest by the rumour that 
we were in reserve. What newspaper work! The poor 
old artillery never gets any mention, and the whole show 
is the infantry. It may interest you to note on your 
map a spot on the west bank of the canal, a mile and a 
half north of Ypres, as the scene of our labours. There 
can be no harm in saying so, now that we are out of it. 
The unit was the most advanced of all the Allies' guns by 
a good deal except one French battery which stayed in a 
position yet more advanced for two days, and then had 
to be taken out. I think it may be said that we saw the 
show from the soup to the coffee. 

France, May 17th, 1915. 

The farther we get away from Ypres the more we learn 
of the enormous power the Germans put in to push us 
over. Lord only knows how many men they had, and 
how many they lost. I wish I could embody on paper 
some of the varied sensations of that seventeen days. 

(74I 



mttb tbe Ovxns 

All the gunners down this way passed us all sorts of kudos 
over it. Our guns — those behind us, from which we had 
to dodge occasional prematures — have a peculiar bang- 
sound added to the sharp crack of discharge. The French 
75 has a sharp wood-block-chop sound, and the shell goes 
over with a peculiar whine — not unlike a cat, but begin- 
ning with n — thus, — n-eouw. The big fellows, 3000 
yards or more behind, sounded exactly like our own, but 
the flash came three or four seconds before the sound. 
Of the German shells — the field guns come with a great 
velocity — no warning — just whizz-bang; white smoke, 
nearly always air bursts. The next size, probably 5 
inch howitzers, have a perceptible time of approach, an 
increasing whine, and a great burst on the percussion — 
dirt in all directions. And even if a shell hit on the front 
of the canal bank, and one were on the back of the bank, 
five, eight, or ten seconds later one would hear a belated 
whirr, and curved pieces of shell would light — probably 
parabolic curves or boomerangs. These shells have a 
great back kick; from the field gun shrapnel we got noth- 
ing behind the shell — all the pieces go forward. From the 
howitzers, the danger is almost as great behind as in 
front if they burst on percussion. Then the large shrapnel 
— air-burst — have a double explosion, as if a giant shook 
a wet sail for two flaps; first a dark green burst of smoke; 
then a lighter yellow burst goes out from the centre, 
forwards. I do not understand the why of it. 

Then the lo-inch shells: a deliberate whirring course — 
a deafening explosion — black smoke, and earth 70 or 80 
feet in the air. These always burst on percussion. The 
constant noise of our own guns is really worse on the nerves 
than the shell; there is the deafening noise, and the con- 
stant whirr of shells going overhead. The earth shakes 
with every nearby gun and every close shell. I think I 
may safely enclose a cross section of our position. The 

[75] 



Mitb tbe (Buns 

left is the front: a slope down of 20 feet in 100 yards to 
the canal, a high row of trees on each bank, then a short 
40 yards slope up to the summit of the trench, where the 
brain of the outfit was; then a telephone wired slope, and 
on the sharp slope, the dugouts, including my own. The 
nondescript affair on the low slope is the gun position, 
behind it the men's shelter pits. Behind my dugout was 
a rapid small stream, on its far bank a row of pollard 
willows, then 30 yards of field, then a road with two paral- 
lel rows of high trees. Behind this again, several hundred 
yards of fields to cross before the main gun positions are 
reached. 

More often fire came from three quarters left, and be- 
cause our ridge died away there was a low spot over 
which they could come pretty dangerously. The road 
thirty yards behind us was a nightmare to me. I saw all 
the tragedies of war enacted there. A wagon, or a bunch 
of horses, or a stray man, or a couple of men, would get 
there just in time for a shell. One would see the absolute 
knock-out, and the obviously lightly wounded crawling 
off on hands and knees; or worse yet, at night, one would 
hear the tragedy — "that horse scream" — or the man's 
moan. All our own wagons had to come there (one every 
half hour in smart action), be emptied, and the ammuni- 
tion carried over by hand. Do you wonder that the road 
got on our nerves? On this road, too, was the house 
where we took our meals. It was hit several times, win- 
dows all blown in by nearby shells, but one end remained 
for us. 

Seventeen days of Hades! At the end of the first day 
if anyone had told us we had to spend seventeen days 
there, we would have folded our hands and said it could 
not be done. On the fifteenth day we got orders to go 
out, but that was countermanded in two hours. To the 
last we could scarcely believe we were actually to get out. 

[76] 




•4d-^-i*u^ V A*^^^ 









Facsimile of a sketch by John McCrae on the back of a card 



Mttb tbe (3ms 

The real audacity of the position was its safety; the 
Germans knew to a foot where we were. I think I told 
you of some of the "you must stick it out" messages we 
got from our [French] General, — they put it up to us. 
It is a wonder to me that we slept when, and how, we did. 
If we had not slept and eaten as well as possible we could 
not have lasted. And while we were doing this, the 
London office of a Canadian newspaper cabled home 
"Canadian Artillery in reserve." Such is fame! 

Thursday, May 27th, 1915. 

Day cloudy and chilly. We wore our greatcoats most 
of the afternoon, and looked for bits of sunlight to get warm. 
About two o'clock the heavy guns gave us a regular "black- 
smithing." Every time we fired we drew a perfect hor- 
net's nest about our heads. While attending to a casualty, 
a shell broke through both sides of the trench, front and 
back, about twelve feet away. The zigzag of the trench 
was between it and us, and we escaped. From my bunk 
the moon looks down at me, and the wind whistles along 
the trench like a corridor. As the trenches run in all 
directions they catch the wind however it blows, so one is 
always sure of a good draught. We have not had our 
clothes off since last Saturday, and there is no near pros- 
pect of getting them off. 

Friday, May 28th, 1915. 

Warmer this morning and sunny, a quiet morning, as 
far as we were concerned. One battery fired twenty 
rounds and the rest "sat tight." Newspapers which 
arrive show that up to May 7th, the Canadian public has 
made no guess at the extent of the battle of Ypres. The 
Canadian papers seem to have lost interest in it after the 
first four days; this regardless of the fact that the artil- 
lery, numerically a quarter of the division, was in all the 

[77] 



Mttb tbe (Buns 

time. One correspondent writes from the Canadian rest 
camp, and never mentions Ypres. Others say they hear 
heavy bombarding which appears to come from Armen- 
tieres. 

A few strokes will complete the picture: 

Wednesday, April 29th, 1915. 

This morning is the sixth day of this fight; it has been 
constant, except that we got good chance to sleep for the 
last two nights. Our men have fought beyond praise. 
Canadian soldiers have set a standard for themselves 
which will keep posterity busy to surpass. And the War 
Office published that the 4. i guns captured were Canadian. 
They were not: the division has not lost a gun so far by 
capture. We will make a good job of it — if we can. 

May ist, 1915. 

This is the ninth day that we have stuck to the ridge, 
and the batteries have fought with a steadiness which is 
beyond all praise. If I could say what our casualties in 
men, guns, and horses were, you would see at a glance it 
has been a hot corner; but we have given better than we 
got, for the German casualties from this front have been 
largely from artillery, except for the French attack of 
yesterday and the day before, when they advanced appre- 
ciably on our left. The front, however, just here remains 
where it was, and the artillery fire is very heavy — I think 
as heavy here as on any part of the line, with the excep- 
tion of certain cross-roads which are the particular object 
of fire. The first four days the anxiety was wearing, for 
we did not know at what minute the German army corps 
would come for us. We lie out in support of the French 
troops entirely, and are working with them. Since that 
time evidently great reinforcements have come in, and 

[78I 



Mitb tbe (Buns 

now we have a most formidable force of artillery to turti 
on them. 

Fortunately the weather has been good; the days are 
hot and summerlike. Yesterday in the press of bad smells 
I got a whiff of a hedgerow in bloom. The birds perch 
on the trees over our heads and twitter away as if there 
was nothing to worry about. Bonfire is still well. I 
do hope he gets through all right. 

Flanders, March 30th, 1915. 

The Brigade is actually in twelve different places. The 
ammunition column and the horse and wagon lines are- 
back, and my corporal visits them every day. I attend 
the gun lines; any casualty is reported by telephone, and 
I go to it. The wounded and sick stay where they are till 
dark, when the field ambulances go over certain grounds 
and collect. A good deal of suffering is entailed by the 
delay till night, but it is useless for vehicles to go on the 
roads within 1 500 yards of the trenches. They are willing 
enough to go. Most of the trench injuries are of the head, 
and therefore there is a high proportion of killed in the 
daily warfare as opposed to an attack. Our Canadian 
plots fill up rapidly. 

And here is one last note to his mother: 

On the eve of the battle of Ypres I was indebted to you 
for a letter which said "take good care of my son Jack, 
but I would not have you unmindful that, sometimes, 
when we save we lose." I have that last happy phrase to 
thank. Often when I had to go out over the areas that 
were being shelled, it came into my mind. I would 
shoulder the box, and "go to it." 

At this time the Canadian division was mov- 
ing south to take its share in the events that 

[79] 



mttb tbe 6uns 

happened in the La Bassee sector. Here is 
the record: 

Tuesday, June 1st, 1915. 
ij^ miles northeast of Festubert, near La Bass6e. 

Last night a 15 pr. and a 4-inch howitzer fired at inter- 
vals of five minutes from 8 till 4; most of them within 
500 or 600 yards — a very tiresome procedure; much of it 
is on registered roads. In the morning I walked out to 
Le Touret to the wagon lines, got Bonfire, and rode to 
the headquarters at Vendin-lez-Bethune, a little village 
a mile past Bethune. Left the horse at the lines and 
walked back again. An unfortunate shell in the ist killed 
a sergeant and wounded two men; thanks to the strong 
emplacements the rest of the crew escaped. In the 
evening went around the batteries and said good-bye. 
We stood by while they laid away the sergeant who was 
killed. Kind hands have made two pathetic little wreaths 
of roses; the grave under an apple-tree, and the moon 
rising over the horizon; a siege-lamp held for the book. 
Of the last 41 days the guns have been in action 33. 
Captain Lockhart, late with Fort Garry Horse, arrived to 
relieve me. I handed over, came up to the horse lines, 
and slept in a covered wagon in a courtyard. We were all 
sorry to part — the four of us have been very intimate and 
had agreed perfectly — and friendships under these cir- 
cumstances are apt to be the real thing I am sorry to 
leave them in such a hot corner, but cannot choose and 
must obey orders. It is a great relief from strain, I must 
admit, to be out, but I could wish that they all were. 

This phase of the war lasted two months pre- 
cisely, and to John McCrae it must have seemed 
a lifetime since he went into this memorable 
action. The events preceding the second battle 

[80] 



Mitb tbe Guns 

of Ypres received scant mention in his letters; 
but one remains, which brings into relief one of 
the many moves of that tumultuous time. 

April 1st, 1915. 

We moved out in the late afternoon, getting on the road 
a httle after dark. Such a move is not unattended by 
danger, for to bring horses and Hmbers down the roads in 
the shell zone in daylight renders them liable to observa- 
tion, aerial or otherwise. More than that, the roads are 
now beginning to be dusty, and at all times there is the 
noise which carries far. The roads are nearly all registered 
in their battery books, so if they suspect a move, it is 
the natural thing to loose off a few rounds. However, our 
anxiety was not borne out, and we got out of the danger 
zone by 8.30 — a not too long march in the dark, and then 
for the last of the march a glorious full moon. The houses 
everywhere are as dark as possible, and on the roads 
noises but no lights. One goes on by the long rows of 
trees that are so numerous in this country, on cobble- 
stones and country roads, watching one's horses' ears 
wagging, and seeing not much else. Our maps are well 
studied before we start, and this time we are not far out 
of familiar territory. We got to our new billet about 10 
— quite a good farmhouse; and almost at once one feels 
the relief of the strain of being in the shell zone. I cannot 
say I had noticed it when there; but one is distinctly 
relieved when out of it. 

Such, then, was the life in Flanders fields in 
which the verse was born. This is no mere 
surmise. There is a letter from Major-General 
E. W. B. Morrison, C.B., C.M.G., D.S.O., who 
commanded the Brigade at the time, which is 

6 [81] 



Mttb tbe Guns 

quite explicit. "This poem," Genera! Morrison 
writes, "was literally born of fire and blood 
during the hottest phase of the second battle 
of Ypres. My headquarters were in a trench 
on the top of the bank of the Ypres Canal, 
and John had his dressing station in a hole 
dug in the foot of the bank. During periods 
in the battle men who were shot actually 
rolled down the bank into his dressing station. 
Along from us a few hundred yards was the 
headquarters of a regiment, and many times 
during the sixteen days of battle, he and 1 
watched them burying their dead whenever 
there was a lull. Thus the crosses, row on row, 
grew into a good-sized cemetery. Just as he 
describes, we often heard in the mornings the 
larks singing high in the air, between the crash 
of the shell and the reports of the guns in the 
battery just beside us. I have a letter from 
him in which he mentions having written the 
poem to pass away the time between the arrival 
of batches of Avounded, and partly as an experi- 
ment with several varieties of poetic metre. I 
have a sketch of the scene, taken at the time, 
including his dressing station; and during our 
operations at Passchendaele last November, I 
found time to make a sketch of the scene of the 
crosses, row on row, from which he derived his 
inspiration." 

[82] 



Ube lBran& of Mar 

The last letter from the Front is dated June 
I St, 1915. Upon that day he was posted to No. 
3 General Hospital at Boulogne, and placed in 
charge of medicine with the rank of Lieutenant- 
Colonel as of date 17th April, 191 5. Here he 
remained until the day of his death on January 
28th, 1918. 



There are men who pass through such scenes 
unmoved. If they have eyes, they do not see; 
and ears, they do not hear. But John McCrae 
was profoundly moved, and bore in his body 
until the end the signs of his experience. Before 
taking up his new duties he made a visit to the 
hospitals in Paris to see if there was any new 
thing that might be learned. A Nursing Sister 
in the American Ambulance at Neuilly-sur-Seine 
met him in the wards. Although she had known 
him for fifteen years she did not recognize him, — 
he appeared to her so old, so worn, his face lined 
and ashen grey in colour, his expression dull, his 
action slow and heavy. 

To those who have never seen John McCrae 
since he left Canada this change in his appear- 
ance will seem incredible. He was of the Eck- 
fords, and the Eckford men were "bonnie men," 
men with rosy cheeks. It was a year before I 
met him again, and he had not yet recovered 
[83] 



Ube 3BranO ot Mar 

from the strain. Although he was upwards of 
forty years of age when he left Canada he had 
always retained an appearance of extreme youth- 
fulness. He frequented the company of men 
much younger than himself, and their youth 
was imputed to him. His frame was tall and 
well knit, and he showed alertness in every 
move. He would arise from the chair with 
every muscle in action, and walk forth as if he 
were about to dance. 

The first time I saw him he was doing an 
autopsy at the Montreal General Hospital upon 
the body of a child who had died under my care. 
This must have been in the year 1900, and the 
impression of boyishness remained until I met 
him in France sixteen years later. His manner 
of dress did much to produce this illusion. When 
he was a student in London he employed a 
tailor in Queen Victoria Street to make his 
clothes; but with advancing years he neglected 
to have new measurements taken or to alter 
the pattern of his cloth. To obtain a new suit 
was merely to write a letter, and he was always 
economical of time. In those days jackets 
were cut short, and he adhered to the fashion 
with persistent care. 

This appearance of youth at times caused 
chagrin to those patients who had heard of his 
fame as a physician, and called upon him for 
[84] 



Zbc JBran& of Mar 

the first time. In the Royal Victoria Hospital, 
after he had been appointed physician, he en- 
tered the wards and asked a nurse to fetch a 
screen so that he might examine a patient in 
privacy. 

"Students are not allowed to use screens," the 
young woman warned him with some asperity 
in her voice. 

If I were asked to state briefly the impression 
which remains with me most firmly, I should 
say it was one of continuous laughter. That is 
not true, of course, for in repose his face was 
heavy, his countenance more than ruddy; it 
was even of a "choleric" cast, and at times 
almost livid, especially when he was recovering 
from one of those attacks of asthma from which 
he habitually suffered. But his smile was his 
own, and it was ineffable. It filled the eyes, 
and illumined the face. It was the smile of 
sheer fun, of pure gaiety, of sincere playfulness, 
innocent of irony; with a tinge of sarcasm — 
never. When he allowed himself to speak of 
meanness in the profession, of dishonesty in 
men, of evil in the world, his face became for- 
midable. The glow of his countenance deep- 
ened; his words were bitter, and the tones 
harsh. But the indignation would not last. 
The smile would come back. The effect was 
spoiled. Everyone laughed with him. 
I 85] 



XTbe Brant) of Mar 

After his experience at the front the old gaiety 
never returned. There were moments of irasci- 
bility and moods of irritation. The desire for 
solitude grew upon him, and with Bonfire and 
Bonneau he would go apart for long afternoons 
far afield by the roads and lanes about Boulogne. 
The truth is: he felt that he and all had failed, 
and that the torch was thrown from failing 
hands. We have heard much of the suffering, 
the misery, the cold, the wet, the gloom of those 
first three winters; but no tongue has yet ut- 
tered the inner misery of heart that was bred 
of those three years of failure to break the 
enemy's force. 

He was not alone in this shadow of deep dark- 
ness. Givenchy, Festubert, Neuve-Chapelle, 
Ypres, Hooge, the Somme — to mention alone 
the battles in which up to that time the Cana- 
dian Corps had been engaged — all ended in 
failure; and to a sensitive and foreboding mind 
there were sounds and signs that it would be 
given to this generation to hear the pillars and 
fabric of Empire come crashing into the abysm 
of chaos. He was not at the Somme in that 
October of 191 6, but those who returned up 
north with the remnants of their division from 
that place of slaughter will remember that, 
having done all men could do, they felt like 
deserters because they had not left their poor 

[86] 



<3oina to tbe Mars 

bodies dead upon the field along with friends 
of a lifetime, comrades of a campaign. This 
is no mere matter of surmise. The last day I 
spent with him we talked of those things in his 
tent, and I testify that it is true. 



IV 



John McCrae went to the war without illu- 
sions. At first, like many others of his age, he 
did not "think of enlisting," although "his 
services are at the disposal of the Country if it 
needs them." 

In July, 1 91 4, he was at work upon the second 
edition of the Text-Book of Pathology by Adami 
and McCrae, published by Messrs. Lea and 
Febiger, and he had gone to Philadelphia to 
read the proofs. He took them to Atlantic 
City where he could "sit out on the sand, and 
get sunshine and oxygen, and work all at once." 

It was a laborious task, passing eighty to a 
hundred pages of highly technical print each 
day. Then there was the index, between six 
and seven thousand items. " I have," so he 
writes, "to change every item in the old index 
and add others. 1 have a pile of pages, 826 
in all. 1 look at the index, find the old page 
among the 826, and then change the number. 
This about 7000 times, so you may guess the 
[87] 



Ootng to tbe Mars 

drudgery." On July 15th, the work was finished, 
registered, and entrusted to the mail with a special 
delivery stamp. The next day he wrote the 
preface, "which really finished the job." In 
very truth his scientific work was done. 

It was now midsummer. The weather was 
hot. He returned to Montreal. Practice was 
dull. He was considering a voyage to Havre 
and "a little trip with Dr. Adami" when he 
arrived. On July 29th, he left Canada "for 
better or worse. With the world so disturbed," 
he records, " I would gladly have stayed more 
in touch with events, but 1 dare say one is just 
as happy away from the hundred conflicting 
reports." The ship was the Scotian of the Allan 
Line, and he "shared a comfortable cabin with 
a professor of Greek," who was at the University 
in his own time. 

For one inland born, he had a keen curiosity 
about ships and the sea. There is a letter writ- 
ten when he was thirteen years of age in which 
he gives an account of a visit to a naval exhibi- 
tion in London. He describes the models 
which he saw, and gives an elaborate table of 
names, dimensions, and tonnage. He could 
identify the house flags and funnels of all the 
principal liners; he could follow a ship through 
all her vicissitudes and change of ownership. 
When he found himself in a seaport town his 

[88] 



(Being to tbe TKIlars 

first business was to visit the water front and 
take knowledge of the vessels that lay in the 
stream or by the docks. One voyage he made 
to England was in a cargo ship. With his 
passion for work he took on the duties of sur- 
geon, and amazed the skipper with a revela- 
tion of the new technique in operations which 
he himself had been accustomed to perform by 
the light of experience alone. 

On the present and more luxurious voyage, 
he remarks that the decks were roomy, the 
ship seven years old, and capable of fifteen 
knots an hour, the passengers pleasant, and 
including a large number of French. All now 
know only too well the nature of the business 
which sent those ardent spirits flocking home to 
their native land. 

Forty-eight hours were lost in fog. The 
weather was too thick for making the Straits, 
and the Scotian proceeded by Cape Race on her 
way to Havre. Under date of August 5-6 the 
first reference to the war appears: "All is excite- 
ment; the ship runs without lights. Surely 
the German kaiser has his head in the noose at 
last: it will be a terrible war, and the finish of 
one or the other. I am afraid my holiday trip 
is knocked galley west; but we shall see." The 
voyage continues. A "hundred miles from 
Moville we turned back, and headed South for 

[89] 



(Boina to tbe TKIlars 

Queenstown; thence to the Channel; put in at 
Portland; a squadron of battleships; arrived 
here this morning." 

The problem presented itself to him as to 
many another. The decision was made. To 
go back to America was to go back from the 
war. Here are the words: "It seems quite im- 
possible to return, and I do not think 1 should 
try. 1 would not feel quite comfortable over 
it. I am cabling to Morrison at Ottawa, that 
I am available either as combatant or medical 
if they need me. I do not go to it very light- 
heartedly, but I think it is up to me." 

It was not so easy in those days to get to the 
war, as he and many others were soon to discover. 
There was in Canada at the time a small per- 
manent force of 3000 men, a military college, 
a Headquarters staff, and divisional staff for 
the various districts into which the country 
was divided. In addition there was a body of 
militia with a strength of about 60,000 officers 
and other ranks. Annual camps were formed 
at which all arms of the service were represented, 
and the whole was a very good imitation of 
service conditions. Complete plans for mobiliza- 
tion were in existence, by which a certain quota, 
according to the establishment required, could 
be detailed from each district. But upon the 
outbreak of war the operations were taken 
[90] 



Ooim to tbe Mars 

in hand by a Minister of Militia who assumed 
in his own person all those duties usually as- 
signed to the staff. He called to his assistance 
certain business and political associates, with 
the result that volunteers who followed military 
methods did not get very far. 

Accordingly we find it written in John Mc- 
Crae's diary from London: "Nothing doing 
here. I have yet no word from the Depart- 
ment at Ottawa, but I try to be philosophical 
until I hear from Morrison. If they want me 
for the Canadian forces, 1 could use my old 
Sam Browne belt, sword, and saddle if it is yet 
extant. At times I wish I could go home with 
a clear conscience." 

He sailed for Canada in the Calgarian on 
August 28th, having received a cablegram from 
Colonel Morrison, that he had been provision- 
ally appointed surgeon to the ist Brigade 
Artillery. The night he arrived in Montreal I 
dined with him at the University Club, and he 
was aglow with enthusiasm over this new adven- 
ture. He remained in Montreal for a few days, 
and on September 9th, joined the unit to which 
he was attached as medical officer. Before leav- 
ing Montreal he wrote to his sister Geills: 

"Out on the awful old trail again! And with 
very mixed feelings, but some determination. 
I am off to Val-cartier to-night. 1 was really 
[91] 



Soutb atrica 

afraid to go home, for 1 feared it would only 
be harrowing for Mater, and I think she agrees. 
We can hope for happier times. Everyone most 
kind and helpful: my going does not seem to 
surprise anyone. 1 know you will understand 
it is hard to go home, and perhaps easier for 
us all that 1 do not. 1 am in good hope of 
coming back soon and safely: that, 1 am glad 
to say, is in other and better hands than ours." 



In the Auturnn of 1914, after John McCrae 
had gone over-seas, I was in a warehouse in 
Montreal, in which one might find an old piece 
of mahogany wood. His boxes were there in 
storage, with his name plainly printed upon 
them. The storeman, observing my interest, 
remarked: "This Doctor McCrae cannot be do- 
ing much business; he is always going to the 
wars." The remark was profoundly significant 
of the state of mind upon the subject of war 
which prevailed at the time in Canada in more 
intelligent persons. To this storeman war merely 
meant that the less usefully employed members 
of the community sent their boxes to him for 
safe-keeping until their return. War was a 
great holiday from work; and he had a vague 
remembrance that some fifteen years before 
[92] 



Soutb Btrica 

this customer had required of him a similar 
service when the South African war broke out. 

Either in esse or in posse John McCrae had 
"always been going to the wars." At fourteen 
years of age he joined the Guelph Highland 
Cadets, and rose to the rank of ist Lieutenant. 
As his size and strength increased he reverted 
to the ranks and transferred to the Artillery. 
In due time he rose from gunner to major. The 
formal date of his "Gazette" is 17-3-02 as 
they write it in the army; but he earned his 
rank in South Africa. 

War was the burden of his thought; war and 
death the theme of his verse. At the age of 
thirteen we find him at a gallery in Nottingham, 
writing this note: "1 saw the picture of the 
artillery going over the trenches at Tel-el- Kebir. 
It is a good picture; but there are four teams 
on the guns. Perhaps an extra one had to be 
put on." If his nomenclature was not correct, 
the observation of the young artillerist was 
exact. Such excesses were not permitted in his 
father's battery in Guelph, Ontario. During 
this same visit his curiosity led him into the 
House of Lords', and the sum of his written 
observation is, "When someone is speaking no 
one seems to listen at all." 

His mother 1 never knew. Canada is a large 
place. With his father I had four hours' talk 
[93] 



Soutb Hfrica 

from seven to eleven one June evening in Lon- 
don in 1917. At the time I was on leave from 
France to give the Cavendish Lecture, a task 
which demanded some thought; and after two 
years in the army it was a curious sensation — 
watching one's mind at work again. The day 
was Sunday. I had walked down to the river 
to watch the flowing tide. To one brought up 
in a country of streams and a moving sea the 
curse of Flanders is her stagnant waters. It is 
little wonder the exiles from the Judaean hill- 
sides wept beside the slimy River. 

The Thames by evening in June, memories 
that reached from Tacitus to Wordsworth, the 
embrasure that extends in front of the Egyptian 
obelisk for a standing place, and some children 
"swimming a dog"; — that was the scene and cir- 
cumstance of my first meeting with his father. 
A man of middle age was standing by. He 
wore the flashings of a Lieutenant-Colonel and 
for badges the Artillery grenades. He seemed 
a friendly man; and under the influence of the 
moment, which he also surely felt, I spoke to 
him. 

"A fine river," — That was a safe remark. 

" But I know a finer." 

"Pharpar and Abana?" I put the stranger 
to the test. 

"No," he said. "The St. Lawrence is not 

[94] 



Soutb Hfrica 

of Damascus." He had answered to the sign, 
and looked at my patches. 

" I have a son in France, myself," he said. 
"His name is McCrae." 

"Not John McCrae?" 

"John McCrae is my son." 

The resemblance was instant, but this was 
an older man than at first sight he seemed to be. 
I asked him to dinner at Morley's, my place of 
resort for a length of time beyond the memory 
of all but the oldest servants. He had already 
dined but he came and sat with me, and told 
me marvellous things. 

David McCrae had raised, and trained, a 
field battery in Guelph, and brought it over- 
seas. He was at the time upwards of seventy 
years of age, and was considered on account of 
years alone "unfit" to proceed to the front. 
For many years he had commanded a field 
battery in the Canadian militia, went on 
manoeuvres with his "cannons," and fired round 
shot. When the time came for using shells he 
bored the fuse with a gimlet; and if the gimlet 
were lost in the grass, the gun was out of action 
until the useful tool could be found. This 
"cannon ball" would travel over the country 
according to the obstacles it encountered and, 
"if it struck a man, it might break his leg." 

In such a martial atmosphere the boy was 
[95] 



Soutb Htrica 

brought up, and he was early nourished with 
the history of the Highland regiments. Also 
from his father he inherited, or had instilled 
into him, a love of the out of doors, a knowledge 
of trees, and plants, a sympathy with birds and 
beasts, domestic and wild. When the South 
African war broke out a contingent was dis- 
patched from Canada, but it was so small that 
few of those desiring to go could fmd a place. 
This explains the genesis of the following letter: 

I see by to-night's bulletin that there is to be no second 
contingent. I feel sick with disappointment, and do not 
believe that I have ever been so disappointed in my life, 
for ever since this business began I am certain there have 
not been fifteen minutes of my waking hours that it has 
not been in my mind. It has to come sooner or later. 
One campaign might cure me, but nothing else ever will, 
unless it should be old age. I regret bitterly that I did 
not enlist with the first, for I doubt if ever another chance 
will offer like it. This is not said in ignorance of what the 
hardships would be. 

I am ashamed to say I am doing my work in a merely 
mechanical way. If they are taking surgeons on the 
other side, I have enough money to get myself across. 
If I knew any one over there who could do anything, I 
would certainly set about it. If I can get an appointment 
in England by going, I will go. My position here I do not 
count as an old boot in comparison. 

In the end he accomplished the desire of his 
heart, and sailed on the Laurentian. Concern- 
ing the voyage one transcription will be enough: 
[96] 



Soutb Hfrfca 

On orderly duty. I have just been out taking the 
picket at 11.30 p.m. In the stables the long row of heads 
in the half-darkness, the creaking of the ship, the shiver- 
ing of the hull from the vibration of the engines, the sing 
of a sentry on the spar deck to some passer-by. Then to 
the forward deck: the sky half covered with scudding 
clouds, the stars bright in the intervals, the wind whistling 
a regular blow that tries one's ears, the constant swish as 
she settles down to a ^ea; and, looking aft, the furmel with 
a wreath of smoke trailing away oflf into the darkness on 
the starboard quarter; the patch of white on the funnel 
discernible dimly ; the masts drawing maps across the sky as 
one looks up; the clank of shovels coming up through the 
ventilators, — if you have ever been there, you know it all. 

There was a voluntary service at six; two ships' lanterns 
and the men all around, the background of sky and sea, 
and the strains of "Nearer my God to Theo" rising up in 
splendid chorus. It was a very effective scene, and it 
occurred to me that this was "the rooibaatjees singing on 
the road," as the song says. 

The next entry is from South Africa: 

Green Point Camp, Capetown, 
February 2sth, 1900. 

You have no idea of the work. Section commanders 
live with their sections, which is the right way. It makes 
long hours. I never knew a softer bed than the ground is 
these nights. I really enjoy every minute though there 
is anxiety. We have lost all our spare horses. We have 
only enough to turn out the battery and no more. 

After a description of a number of the regiments 
camped near by them, he speaks of the Indian 
troops, and then says: 

7 [97] 



Soutb Hfrfca 

We met the High Priest of it all, and I had a five minutes' 
chat with him — Kipling I mean. He visited the camp. 
He looks like his pictures, and is very affable. He told 
me I spoke like a Wirmipeger. He said we ought to "fine 
the men for drinking unboiled water. Don't give them 
C.B.; it is no good. Fine them, or drive common sense 
into them. All Canadians have common sense." 

The next letter is from the Lines of Communi- 
cation: 

Van Wyks Vlei, 
March 22nd, 1900. 

Here I am with my first command. Each place we 
strike is a little more God-forsaken than the last, and this 
place wins up to date. We marched last week from 
Victoria west to Carnovan, about 80 miles. We stayed 
there over Sunday, and on Monday my section was de- 
tached with mounted infantry, I being the only artillery 
officer. We marched 54 miles in 37 hours with stops; 
not very fast, but quite satisfactory. My horse is doing 
well, although very thin. Night before last on the road 
we halted, and I dismounted for a minute. When we 
started I pulled on the lines but no answer. The poor old 
chap was fast asleep in his tracks, and in about thirty 
seconds too. 

This continuous marching is really hard work. The 
men at every halt just drop down in the road and sleep 
until they are kicked up again in ten minutes. They do it 
willingly too. I am commanding officer, adjutant, officer 
on duty, and all the rest since we left the main body. 
Talk about the Army in Flanders! You should hear this 
battalion. I always knew soldiers could swear, but you 
ought to hear these fellows. I am told the first contingent 
has got a name among the regulars. 
[98] 



Soutb Hfrtca 

Three weeks later he writes: 

April loth, igoo. 

We certainly shall have done a good march when we get 
to the railroad, 478 miles through a country desolate of 
forage carrying our own transport and one-half rations 
of forage, and frequently the men's rations. For two 
days running we had nine hours in the saddle without 
food. My throat was sore and swollen for a day or two, 
and I felt so sorry for myself at times that I laughed to 
think how I must have looked: sitting on a stone, drinking 
a pan of tea without trimmings, that had got cold, and 
eating a shapeless lump of brown bread; my one "hank" 
drawn around my neck, serving as hank and bandage 
alternately. It is miserable to have to climb up on one's 
horse with a head like a buzz saw, the sun very hot, and 
"gargle" in one's water bottle. It is surprising how I can 
go without water if I have to on a short stretch, that is, 
of ten hours in the sun. It is after nightfall that the 
thirst really seems to attack one and actually gnaws. 
One thinks of all the cool drinks and good things one would 
like to eat. Please understand that this is not for one 
instant in any spirit of growling. 

The detail was now established at Victoria 
Road. Three entries appear: 

April 23rd, 1900. 

We are still here in camp hoping for orders to move, 
but they have not yet come. Most of the other troops 
have gone. A squadron of the M.C.R., my messmates 
for the past five weeks, have gone and I am left an orphan. 
I was very sorry to see them go. They, in the kindness 
of their hearts, say, if I get stranded, they will do the best 
they can to get a troop for me in the squadron or some 

[99] 



Soutb Htrica 

such employment. Impracticable, but kind. I have no 
wish to cease to be a gunner. 

Victoria Road, May 20th, 1900. 

The horses are doing as well as one can expect, for the 
rations are insufficient. Our men have been helping to 
get ready a rest camp near us, and have been filling 
mattresses with hay. Every fatigue party comes back 
from the hospital, their jackets bulging with hay for the 
horses. Two bales were condemned as too musty to put 
into the mattresses, and we were allowed to take them 
for the horses. They didn't leave a spear of it. Isn't it 
pitiful? Everything that the heart of man and woman 
can devise has been sent out for the "Tommies," but no 
one thinks of the poor horses. They get the worst of it 
all the time. Even now we blush to see the handful of 
hay that each horse gets at a feed. 

The Boer War is so far off in time and space 
that a few further detached references must 
suffice: 

When riding into Bloemfontein met Lord 's funeral 

at the cemetery gates, — band, firing party. Union Jack, 
and about three companies. A few yards farther on a 
"Tommy" covered only by his blanket, escorted by thir- 
teen men all told, the last class distinction that the world 
can ever make. 

We had our baptism of fire yesterday. They opened 
on us from the left flank. Their first shell was about 150 
yards in front — direction good. The next was 100 yards 
over ; and we thought we were bracketed. Some shrapnel 
burst over us and scattered on all sides. I felt as if a hail 
storm was coming down, and wanted to turn my back, 
but it was over in an instant. The whistle of a shell is 
[ 100] 



Soutb Hfrica 

unpleasant. You hear it begin to scream; the scream 
grows louder and louder; it seems to be coming exactly 
your way; then you realize that it has gone over. Most 
of them fell between our guns and wagons. Our position 
was quite in the open. 

With Ian Hamilton's column near Balmoral. 

The day was cold, much like a December day at home, 
and by my kit going astray I had only light clothing. 
The rain was fearfully chilly. When we got in about dark 
we found that the transport could not come up, and it 
had all our blankets and coats. I had my cape and a 
rubber sheet for the saddle, both soaking wet. Being on 
duty I held to camp, the others making for the house 
nearby where they got poor quarters. I bunked out, 
supperless hke every one else, under an ammunition wagon. 
It rained most of the night and was bitterly cold. I slept 
at intervals, keeping the same position all night, both 
legs in a puddle and my feet being rained on: it was a 
long night from dark at 5.30 to morning. Ten men in 
the infantry regiment next us died during the night from 
exposure. Altogether I never knew such a night, and with 
decent luck hope never to see such another. 

As we passed we saw the Connaughts looking at the 
graves of their comrades of twenty years ago. The Bat- 
tery rode at attention and gave "Eyes right": the first 
time for twenty years that the roll of a British gun has 
broken in on the silence of those unnamed graves. 

We were inspected by Lord Roberts. The battery 
turned out very smart, and Lord Roberts complimented 
the Major on its appearance. He then inspected, and 
afterwards asked to have the officers called out. We were 
presented to him in turn; he spoke a few words to each 



Soutb Htrlca 

of us, asking what our corps and service had been. He 
seemed surprised that we were all Field Artillery men, 
but probably the composition of the other Canadian 
units had to do with this. He asked a good many ques- 
tions about the horses, the men, and particularly about 
the spirits of the men. Altogether he showed a very kind 
interest in the battery. 

At nine took the Presbyterian parade to the lines, the 
first Presbyterian service since we left Canada. We had 
the right, the Gordons and the Royal Scots next. The 
music was excellent, led by the brass band of the Royal 
Scots, which played extremely well. All the singing was 
from the psalms and paraphrases: "Old Hundred" and 
"Duke Street" among them. It was very pleasant to 
hear the old reliables once more. "McCrae's Covenant- 
ers" some of the ofhcers called us; but I should not like 
to set our conduct up against the standard of those austere 
men. 

At Lyndenburg: 

The Boers opened on us at about 10,000 yards, the fire 
being accurate from the first. They shelled us till dark, 
over three hours. The guns on our left fired for a long 
time on BuUer's camp, the ones on our right on us. We 
could see the smoke and flash; then there was a soul-con- 
suming interval of 20 to 30 seconds when we would hear 
the report, and about five seconds later the burst. Many 
in succession burst over and all around us. I picked up 
pieces which fell within a few feet. It was a trying after- 
noon, and we stood around wondering. We moved the 
horses back, and took cover under the wagons. We were 
thankful when the sun went down, especially as for the 
last hour of daylight they turned all their guns on us. The 
casualties were few. 



Soutb Htrlca 

The next morning a heavy mist prevented the enemy 
from firing. The division marched out at 7.30 a.m. The 
attack was made in three columns : cavalry brigade on the 
left; Buller's troops in the centre, Hamilton's on the right. 
The Canadian artillery were with Hamilton's division. 
The approach to the hill was exposed everywhere except 
where some cover was afforded by ridges. We marched 
out as support to the Gordons, the cavalry and the Royal 
Horse Artillery going out to our right as a flank guard. 
While we were waiting three 100-pound shells struck the 
top of the ridge in succession about 50 to 75 yards in front 
of the battery line. We began to feel rather shaky. 

On looking over the field at this time one could not tell 
that anything was occurring except for the long range guns 
replying to the fire from the hill. The enemy had opened 
fire as soon as our advance was pushed out. With a glass 
one could distinguish the infantry pushing up in lines, 
five or six in succession, the men being some yards apart. 
Then came a long pause, broken only by the big guns. 
At last we got the order to advance just as the big guns of 
the enemy stopped their fire. We advanced about four 
miles mostly up the slope, which is in all about 1500 feet 
high, over a great deal of rough ground and over a number 
of spruits. The horses were put to their utmost to draw 
the guns up the hills. As we advanced we could see artil- 
lery crawling in from both flanks, all converging to the 
main hill, while far away the infantry and cavalry were 
beginning to crown the heights near us. Then the field 
guns and the pompoms began to play. As the field guns 
came up to a broad plateau section after section came into 
action, and we fired shrapnel and lyddite on the crests 
ahead and to the left. Every now and then a rattle of 
Mausers and Metfords would tell us that the infantry 
were at their work, but practically the battle was over. 
From being an infantry attack as expected it was the 

[ 103 1 



CbtlDren ant) Hntmals 

gunners' day, and the artillery seemed to do excellent 
work. 

General Buller pushed up the hill as the guns were at 
work, and afterwards General Hamilton; the one as grim 
as his pictures, the other looking very happy. The wind 
blew through us cold like ice as we stood on the hill; as 
the artillery ceased fire the mist dropped over us chilling 
us to the bone. We were afraid we should have to spend 
the night on the hill, but a welcome order came sending us 
back to camp, a distance of five miles by the roads, as 
Buller would hold the hill, and our force must march south. 
Our front was over eight miles wide and the objective 
1500 feet higher than our camp, and over six miles away. 
If the enemy had had the nerve to stand, the position 
could scarcely have been taken; certainly not without the 
loss of thousands. 

For this campaign he received the Queen's 
Medal with three clasps. 

VI 

Through all his life, and through all his let- 
ters, dogs and children followed him as shadows 
follow men. To walk in the streets with him 
was a slow procession. Every dog and every 
child one met must be spoken to, and each made 
answer. Throughout the later letters the names 
Bonfire and Bonneau occur continually. Bon- 
fire was his horse, and Bonneau his dog. 

This horse, an Irish hunter, was given to him 
by John L. Todd. It was wounded twice, and 
now lives in honourable retirement at a secret 
i 104] 




John McCrae and Bonneau 



Cbil^ren ant) animals 

place which need not be disclosed to the army 
authorities. One officer who had visited the hos- 
pital writes of seeing him going about the wards 
with Bonneau and a small French child following 
after. In memory of his love for animals and 
children the following extracts will serve: 

You ask if the wee fellow has a name — Mike, mostly, 
as a term of affection. He has found a cupboard in one 
ward in which oakum is stored, and he loves to steal in 
there and "pick oakum," amusing himself as long as is 
permitted. I hold that this indicates convict ancestry 
to which Mike makes no defence. 

The family is very well, even one-eyed Mike is able to 
go round the yard in his dressing-gown, so to speak. He 
is a queer pathetic little beast and Madame has him "hos- 
pitalized" on the bottom shelf of the sideboard in the 
living room, whence he comes down (six inches to the 
floor) to greet me, and then gravely hirples back, the hind 
legs looking very pathetic as he hops in. But he is full of 
spirit and is doing very well. 

As to the animals — "those poor voiceless creatures," say 
you. I wish you could hear them. Bonneau and Mike 
are a perfect Dignity and Impudence; and both vocal to 
a wonderful degree. Mike's face is exactly like the terrier 
in the old picture, and he sits up and gives his paw just 
like Bonneau, and I never saw him have any instruction; 
and as for voice, I wish you could hear Bonfire's "whicker" 
to me in the stable or elsewhere. It is all but talk. There 
is one ward door that he tries whenever we pass. He 
turns his head around, looks into the door, and waits. 
The Sisters in the ward have changed frequently, but all 

[105] 



Cbfl^ren anD Hnimals 

alike "fall for it," as they say, and produce a biscuit or 
some such dainty which Bonfire takes with much gravity 
and gentleness. Should I chide him for being too eager 
and give him my hand saying, "Gentle now," he mumbles 
with his lips, and licks with his tongue like a dog to show 
how gentle he can be when he tries. Truly a great boy is 
that same. On this subject I am like a doting grandmother, 
but forgive it. 

I have a very deep affection for Bonfire, for we have 
been through so much together, and some of it bad enough. 
All the hard spots to which one's memory turns the old 
fellow has shared, though he says so little about it. 

This love of animals was no vagrant mood. 
Fifteen years before in South Africa he wrote in 
his diary under date of September nth, 1900: 

I wish I could introduce you to the dogs of the force. 
The genus dog here is essentially sociable, and it is a great 
pleasure to have them about. I think I have a personal 
acquaintance with them all. There are our pups — Dolly, 
whom I always know by her one black and one white eye- 
brow; Grit and Tory, two smaller gentlemen, about the 
size of a pound of butter — and fighters; one small white 
gentleman who rides on a horse, on the blanket; Kitty, 
the monkey, also rides the off lead of the forge wagon. 
There is a black almond-eyed person belonging to the 
Royal Scots, who begins to twist as far as I can see her, 
and comes up in long curves, extremely genially. A small 
shaggy chap who belongs to the Royal Irish stands upon 
his hind legs and spars with his front feet — and lots of 
others — every one of them "a soldier and a man." The 
Royal Scots have a monkey, Jenny, who goes around 
always trailing a sack in her hand, into which she creeps 
if necessary to obtain shelter. 

[ 106 ] 



Cbil^ren ant) Hnimals 

The other day old Jack, my horse, was bitten by his 
next neighbor; he turned slowly, eyed his opponent, shifted 
his rope so that he had a Httle more room, turned very 
deHberately, and planted both heels in the offender's 
stomach. He will not be run upon. 

From a time still further back comes a note 
in a lii<e strain. In 1898 he was house physician 
in a children's hospital at Mt. Airy, Maryland, 
when he wrote: 

A kitten has taken up with a poor cripple dying of muscu- 
lar atrophy who cannot move. It stays with him all the 
time, and sleeps most of the day in his straw hat. To- 
night I saw the kitten curled up under the bed-clothes. 
It seems as if it were a gift of Providence that the little 
creature should attach itself to the child who needs it most. 

Of another child: 

The day she died she called for me all day, deposed the 
nurse who was sitting by her, and asked me to remain 
with her. She had to be held up on account of lack of 
breath; and I had a tiring hour of it before she died, but 
it seemed to make her happier and was no great sacrifice. 
Her friends arrived twenty minutes too late. It seems 
hard that Death will not wait the poor fraction of an hour, 
but so it is. 

And here are some letters to his nephews and 
nieces which reveal his attitude both to children 
and to animals. 

[ 107] 



CbilOren anD animals 

From Bonfire to Sergt.-Major Jack Kilgour 

August 6th, 1916. 

Did you ever have a sore hock? I have one now, and 
Cruickshank puts bandages on my leg. He also washed 
my white socks for me. I am glad you got my picture. 
My master is well, and the girls tell me I am looking well, 
too. The ones I like best give me biscuits and sugar, and 
sometimes flowers. One of them did not want to give 
me some mignonette the other day because she said it 
would make me sick. It did not make me sick. Another 
one sends me bags of carrots. If you don't know how to 
eat carrots, tops and all, you had better learn, but I sup- 
pose you are just a boy, and do not know how good oats 
are. 

Bonfire His Cp Mark. 

From Bonfire to Sergt.-Major Jack Kilgour 

October ist, 1916. 

Dear Jack, 

Did you ever eat blackberries? My master and I pick 
them every day on the hedges. I like twenty at a time. 
My leg is better but I have a lump on my tummy. I went 
to see my doctor to-day, and he says it is nothing at all. 
I have another horse staying in my stable now; he is 
black, and about half my size. He does not keep me 
awake at night. Yours truly. 

Bonfire His O Mark. 

From Bonfire to Margaret Kilgour, Civilian 

November sth, igi6. 

Dear Margaret: 

This is Guy Fox Day ! I spell it that way because fox- 
hunting was my occupation a long time ago before the 
[108] 



CbilDren an& Hnimals 

war. How are Sergt.-Major Jack and Corporal David? 
Ask Jack if he ever bites through his rope at night, and 
gets into the oat-box. And as for the Corporal, "I bet 
you" I can jump as far as he can. I hear David has lost 
his red coat. I still have my grey one, but it is pretty 
dirty now, for I have not had a new one for a long time. 
I got my hair cut a few weeks ago and am to have new 
boots next week. Bonneau and FoUette send their love. 
Yours truly, _^ 

Bonfire His Cp Mark. 

In Flanders, April 3rd, 1915. 

My dear Margaret: 

There is a little girl in this house whose name is Clothilda. 
She is ten years old, and calls me "Monsieur le Major." ^ 
How would you like it if twenty or thirty soldiers came 
along and lived in your house and put their horses in the 
shed or the stable? There are not many little boys and 
girls left in this part of the country, but occasionally one 
meets them on the roads with baskets of eggs or loaves of 
bread. Most of them have no homes, for their houses 
have been burnt by the Germans; but they do not cry 
over it. It is dangerous for them, for a shell might hit 
them at any time — and it would not be an eggshell, either. 

Bonfire is very well. Mother sent him some packets of 
sugar, and if ever you saw a big horse excited about a 
little parcel, it was Bonfire. He can have only two lumps 
in any one day, for there is not much of it. Twice he has 
had gingerbread and he is very fond of that. It is rather 
funny for a soldier-horse, is it not? But soldier horses 
have a pretty hard time of it, sometimes, so we do not 
grudge them a little luxury. Bonfire's friends are King, 
and Prince, and Saxonia, — all nice big boys. If they go 
away and leave him, he whinnies till he catches sight of 
them again, and then he is quite happy. How is the 15th 
[ 109] 



Cbilt)ren an& Bnfmals 

Street Brigade getting on? Tell Mother I recommend 
Jack for promotion to corporal If he has been good. David 
will have to be a gunner for awhile yet, for everybody 
cannot be promoted. Give my love to Katharine, and 
Jack, and David. 

Your affectionate uncle Jack. 

Bonfire, and Bonneau, and little Mike, are all well. 
Mike is about four months old and has lost an eye and had 
a leg broken, but he is a very good little boy all the same. 
He is very fond of Bonfire, and Bonneau, and me. I go 
to the stable and whistle, and Bonneau and Mike come 
running out squealing with joy, to go for a little walk 
with me. When Mike comes to steps, he puts his feet 
on the lowest steps and turns and looks at me and I lift 
him up. He is a dear ugly little chap. 

The dogs are often to be seen sprawled on the floor of 
my tent. I like to have them there for they are very 
home-like beasts. They never seem French to me. Bon- 
neau can "donner la patte" in good style nowadays, and 
he sometimes curls up inside the rabbit hutch, and the 
rabbits seem to like him. 

I wish you could see the hundreds of rabbits there are 
here on the sand-dunes; there are also many larks and 
jackdaws. (These are different from your brother Jack 
although they have black faces.) There are herons, cur- 
lews, and even ducks; and the other day I saw four young 
weasels in a heap, jumping over each other from side to 
side as they ran. 

Sir Bertrand Dawson has a lovely little spaniel, Sue, quite 
black, who goes around with him. I am quite a favourite, 
and one day Sir Bertrand said to me, "She has brought 
you a present," and here she was waiting earnestly for me 
to remove from her mouth a small stone. It is usually a 
simple gift, I notice, and does not embarrass by its value, 
f iiol 



Cbil^ren an& Bnfmals 

Bonfire is very sleek and trim, and we journey much. 
If I sit down in his reach I wish you could see how deftly 
he can pick off my cap and swing it high out of my reach. 
He also carries my crop; his games are simple, but he does 
not readily tire of them. 

I lost poor old Windy. He was the regimental dog of 
the 1st Batt. Lincolns, and came to this vale of Avalon 
to be healed of his second wound. He spent a year at 
Gallipoli and was "over the top" twice with his battalion. 
He came to us with his papers like any other patient, and 
did very well for a while, but took suddenly worse. He 
had all that care and love could suggest and enough mor- 
phine to keep the pain down; but he was very pathetic, 
and I had resolved that it would be true friendship to 
help him over when he "went west." He is buried in our 
woods like any other good soldier, and yesterday I noticed 
that some one has laid a little wreath of ivy on his grave. 
He was an old dog evidently, but we are all sore-hearted 
at losmg him. His kit is kept should his master return, 
— only his collar with his honourable marks, for his ward- 
robe was of necessity simple. So another sad chapter ends. 

September 29th, 1915. 

Bonneau gravely accompanies me round the wards and 
waits for me, sitting up in a most dignified way. He comes 
into my tent and sits there very gravely while I dress. 
Two days ago a Sister brought out sortie biscuits for Bon- 
fire, and not understanding the rules of the game, which 
are bit and bit about for Bonfire and Bonneau, gave all 
to Bonfire, so that poor Bonneau sat below and caught the 
crumbs that fell. I can see that Bonfire makes a great 
hit with the Sisters because he licks their hands just like 
a dog, and no crumb is too small to be gone after. 

April, 1917. 

I was glad to get back ; Bonfire and Bonneau greeted me 
[in] 



Ube ©ID Xan& 

very enthusiastically. I had a long long story from the 
dog, delivered with uplifted muzzle. They tell me he sat 
gravely on the roads a great deal during my absence, and 
all his accustomed haunts missed him. He is back on 
rounds faithfully. 

VII 

If one were engaged upon a formal work of 
biography rather than a mere essay in character, 
it would be just and proper to investigate the 
family sources from which the individual mem- 
ber is sprung; but 1 must content myself within 
the bounds which 1 have set, and leave the larger 
task to a more laborious hand. The essence of 
history lies in the character of the persons con- 
cerned, rather than in the feats which they 
performed. A man neither lives to himself nor 
in himself. He is indissolubly bound up with 
his stock, and can only explain himself in terms 
common to his family; but in doing so he tran- 
scends the limits of history, and passes into the 
realms of philosophy and religion. 

The life of a Canadian is bound up with the 
history of his parish, of his town, of his province, 
of his country, and even with the history of 
that country in which his family had its birth. 
The life of John McCrae takes us back to Scot- 
land. In Canada there has been much writing 
of history of a certain kind. 1 1 deals with events 
rather than with the subtler matter of people, 

[112] 



an^ tbe IRew 

and has been written mainly for purposes of 
advertising. If tiie French made a heroic stand 
against the Iroquois, the sacred spot is now fur- 
nished with an hotel from which a free 'bus 
runs to a station upon the line of an excellent 
railway. Maisonneuve fought his great fight 
upon a place from which a vicious mayor cut 
the trees which once sheltered the soldier, to 
make way for a fountain upon which would be 
raised "historical" figures in concrete stone. 

The history of Canada is the history of its 
people, not of its railways, hotels, and factories. 
The material exists in written or printed form 
in the little archives of many a family. Such 
a chronicle is in possession of the Eckford family 
which now by descent on the female side bears 
the honoured names of Gow, and McCrae, 
John Eckford had two daughters, in the words 
of old Jamie Young, "the most lovingest girls 
he ever knew." The younger, Janet Simpson, 
was taken to wife by David McCrae, 21st 
January, 1870, and on November 30th, 1872, 
became the mother of John. To her he wrote 
all these letters, glowing with filial devotion, 
which I am privileged to use so freely. 

There is in the family a tradition of the single 
name for the males. It was therefore proper 
that the elder born should be called Thomas, 
more learned in medicine, more assiduous in 

8 [113] 



tlbe ©l& Xan^ 

practice, and more weighty in intellect even 
than the otherwise more highly gifted John. 
He too is professor of medicine, and co-author 
of a profound work with his master and relative 
by marriage — Sir William Osier. Also, he wore 
the King's uniform and served in the present 
war. 

This John Eckford, accompanied by his two 
daughters, the mother being dead, his sister, 
her husband who bore the name of Chisholm, 
and their numerous children emigrated to 
Canada, May 28th, 1851, in the ship Clutha 
which sailed from the Broomielaw bound for 
Quebec. The consort, fVoIfville, upon which 
they had originally taken passage, arrived in 
Quebec before them, and lay in the stream, 
flying the yellow flag of quarantine. Cholera 
had broken out. " Be still, and see the salvation 
of the Lord," were the words of the family 
morning prayers. 

In the Cluiha also came as passengers James 
and Mary Cow; their cousin, one Duncan Mon- 
ach; Mrs. Hanning, who was a sister of Thomas 
Carlyle; and her two daughters. On the voy- 
age they escaped the usual hardships, and 
their fare appears to us in these days to have 
been abundant. The weekly ration was three 
quarts of water, two ounces of tea, one half 
pound of sugar, one half pound molasses, three 
[114] 



Hn& tbe Bew 

pounds of bread, one pound of flour, two pounds 
of rice, and five pounds of oatmeal. 

The reason for this migration is succinctly 
stated by the head of the house. " I know how 
hard it was for my mother to start me, and I 
wanted land for my children and a better oppor- 
tunity for them." And yet his parents in their 
time appear to have "started" him pretty well, 
although his father was obliged to confess, " I 
never had more of this world's goods than to 
bring up my family by the labour of my hands 
honestly, but it is more than my Master owned, 
who had not where to lay His head." They 
allowed him that very best means of education, 
a calmness of the senses, as he herded sheep 
on the Cheviot Hills. They put him to the 
University in Edinburgh, as a preparation for 
the ministry, and supplied him with ample oat- 
meal, peasemeal bannocks, and milk. In that 
great school of divinity he learned the Hebrew, 
Greek, and Latin; he studied Italian, and French 
under Surenne, him of blessed memory even 
unto this day. 

John Eckford in 18^9 married Margaret 
Christie, and he went far afield for a wife, namely 
from Newbiggin in Forfar, where for fourteen 
years he had his one and only charge, to Strath- 
miglo in Fife. The marriage was fruitful and 
a happy one, although there is a hint in the 
[115I 



record of some religious diflFerence upon which 
one would like to dwell if the subject were not 
too esoteric for this generation. The minister 
showed a certain indulgence, and so long as his 
wife lived he never employed the paraphrases 
in the solemn worship of the sanctuary. She 
was a woman of provident mind. Shortly af- 
ter they were married he made the discovery 
that she had prepared the grave clothes for him 
as well as for herself. Too soon, after only eight 
years, it was her fate to be shrouded in them. 
After her death — probably because of her 
death — John Eckford emigrated to Canada. 

To one who knows the early days in Canada 
there is nothing new in the story of this family. 
They landed in Montreal July i ith, 185 1, forty- 
four days out from Glasgow. They proceeded 
by steamer to Hamilton, the fare being about 
a dollar for each passenger. The next stage was 
to Guelph; then on to Durham, and finally 
they came to the end of their journeying near 
Walkerton in Bruce County in the primeval 
forest, from which they cut out a home for 
themselves and for their children. 

It was "the winter of the deep snow." One 
transcription from the record will disclose the 
scene: 

At length a grave was dug on a knoll in the bush at the 
foot of a great maple with a young snow-laden hemlock 
[116] 



Bn& tbe IKlew 

at the side. The father and the eldest brother carried the 
box along the shovelled path. The mother close behind 
was followed by the two families. The snow was falling 
heavily. At the grave John Eckford read a psalm, and 
prayed, "that they might be enabled to believe, the mercy 
of the Lord is from everlasting to everlasting unto them 
that fear Him." 



John McCrae himself was an indefatigable 
church-goer. There is a note in childish char- 
acters written from Edinburgh in his thirteenth 
year, "On Sabbath went to service four times." 
There the statement stands in all its austerity. 
A letter from a chaplain is extant in which a 
certain mild wonder is expressed at the regular- 
ity in attendance of an officer of field rank. To 
his sure taste in poetry the hymns were a sore 
trial. "Only forty minutes are allowed for 
the service," he said, "and it is sad to see them 
'snappit up' by these poor bald four-line things." 

On Easter Sunday, 191 5, he wrote: "We had 
a church parade this morning, the first since we 
arrived in France. Truly, if the dead rise not, 
we are of all men the most miserable." On the 
funeral service of a friend he remarks: "'Foras- 
much as it hath pleased Almighty God,' — what 
a summary of the whole thing that is!" On 
many occasions he officiated in the absence 
of the chaplains who in those days would have 
as many as six services a day. In civil life in 
[117] 



Zbc Civil l^ears 

Montreal he went to church in the evening, and 
sat under the Reverend James Barclay of St. 
Pauls, now designated by some at least as St. 
Andrews. 

VIII 

It will be observed in this long relation of 
John McCrae that little mention has yet been 
made of what after all was his main concern 
in life. For twenty years he studied and prac- 
tised medicine. To the end he was an assiduous 
student and a very profound practitioner. He 
was a student, not of medicine alone, but of all 
subjects ancillary to the science, and to the task 
he came with a mind braced by a sound and 
generous education. Any education of real 
value a man must have received before he has 
attained to the age of seven years. Indeed he 
may be left impervious to its influence at seven 
weeks. John McCrae's education began well. 
It began in the time of his two grandfathers at 
least, was continued by his father and mother 
before he came upon this world's scene, and by 
them was left deep founded for him to build 
upon. 

Noble natures have a repugnance from work. 
Manual labour is servitude. A day of idleness 
is a holy day. For those whose means do not 
permit to live in idleness the school is the only 

[Il8] 



Tlbe Clvtl l^ears 

refuge; but they must prove their quality. 
This is the goal which drives many Scotch boys 
to the University, scorning delights and willing 
to live long, mind-laborious days. 

John McCrae's father felt bound " to give the 
boy a chance," but the boy must pass the test. 
The test in such cases is the Shorter Catechism, 
that compendium of all intellectual argument. 
How the faithful aspirant for the school acquires 
this body of written knowledge at a time when 
he has not yet learned the use of letters is a 
secret not to be lightly disclosed. It may 
indeed be that already his education is com- 
plete. Upon the little book is always printed 
the table of multiples, so that the obvious truth 
which is comprised in the statement, "two by 
two makes four," is imputed to the contents 
which are within the cover. In studying the 
table the catechism is learned surreptitiously, 
and therefore without self-consciousness. 

So, in this well ordered family with its atmos- 
phere of obedience, we may see the boy, like a 
youthful Socrates going about with a copy of 
the book in his hand, enquiring of those, who 
could already read, not alone what were the 
answers to the questions but the very questions 
themselves to which an answer was demanded. 

This learning, however, was only a minor 
part of life, since upon a farm life is very wide 



XTbe Civil l^ears 

and very deep. In due time the school was 
accomplished, and there was a master in the 
school — let his name be recorded — William 
Tytler, who had a feeling for English writing 
and a desire to extend that feeling to others. 

in due time also the question of a University 
arose. There was a man in Canada named 
Dawson — Sir William Dawson. 1 have written 
of him in another place. He had the idea that 
a university had something to do with the forma- 
tion of character, and that in the formation of 
character religion had a part. He was principal 
of McGill. 1 am not saying that all boys who 
entered that University were religious boys 
when they went in, or even religious men when 
they came out; but religious fathers had a general 
desire "to place their boys under Sir William 
Dawson's care. 

Those were the days of a queer, and now for- 
gotten, controversy over what was called "Sci- 
ence and Religion." Of that also 1 have written 
in another place. It was left to Sir William 
Dawson to deliver the last word in defence of a 
cause that was already lost. His book came 
under the eye of David McCrae, as most books 
of the time did, and he was troubled in his heart. 
His boys were at the University of Toronto. It 
was too late; but he eased his mind by writing 
a letter. To this letter John replies under date 

[ I20] 



XTbe Civil 3^ears 

20th December, 1890: "You say that after 
reading Dawson's book you almost regretted 
that we had not gone to McGill. That, I con- 
sider, would have been rather a calamity, about 
as much so as going to Queen's." We are not 
always wiser than our fathers were, and in the 
end he came to McGill after all. 

For good or ill, John McCrae entered the 
University of Toronto in i 888, with a scholar- 
ship for "general proficiency." He joined the 
Faculty of Arts, took the honours course in 
natural sciences, and graduated from the depart- 
ment of biology in 1894, his course having been 
interrupted by two severe illnesses. From 
natural science, it was an easy step to medicine, 
in which he was encouraged by Ramsay Wright, 
A. B. Macallum, A. McPhedran, and 1. H. 
Cameron. In 1898 he graduated again, with a 
gold medal, and a scholarship in physiology and 
pathology. The previous summer he had spent 
at the Garrett Children's Hospital in Mt. Airy, 
Maryland. 

Upon graduating he entered the Toronto 
General Hospital as resident house officer; in 
1899 he occupied a similar post at Johns Hop- 
kins. Then he came to McGill University as 
fellow in pathology and pathologist to the Mont- 
real General Hospital. 1 n time he was appointed 
physician to the Alexandra Hospital for infec- 
[121] 



Ube Civil l^ears 

tious diseases; later assistant physician to the 
Royal Victoria Hospital, and lecturer in medi- 
cine in the University. By examination he 
became a member of the Royal College of Physi- 
cians, London. In 1914 he was elected a mem- 
ber of the Association of American Physicians. 
These are distinctions won by few in the pro- 
fession. 

In spite, or rather by reason, of his various 
attainments John McCrae never developed, or 
degenerated, into the type of the pure scientist. 
For the laboratory he had neither the mind 
nor the hands. He never peered at partial 
truths so closely as to mistake them for the 
whole truth; therefore, he was unfitted for that 
purely scientific career which was developed to 
so high a pitch of perfection in that nation which 
is now no longer mentioned amongst men. He 
wrote much, and often, upon medical problems. 
The papers bearing his name amount to thirty- 
three items in the catalogues. They testify to 
his industry rather than to invention and dis- 
covery, but they have made his name known in 
every text-book of medicine. 

Apart from his verse, and letters, and diaries, 
and contributions to journals and books of 
medicine, with an occasional address to students 
or to societies, John McCrae left few writings, 
and in these there is nothing remarkable by 
[ 122] 



xrbe Civil l^ears 

reason of thought or expression. He could not 
write prose. Fine as was his ear for verse he 
could not produce that finer rhythm of prose, 
which comes from the fall of proper words in 
proper sequence. He never learned that if a 
writer of prose takes care of the sound the sense 
will take care of itself. He did not scrutinize 
words to discover their first and fresh meaning. 
He wrote in phrases, and used words at second- 
hand as the journalists do. Bullets "rained"; 
guns "swept"; shells "hailed"; events "trans- 
pired," and yet his appreciation of style in 
others was perfect, and he was an insatiable 
reader of the best books. His letter are strewn 
with names of authors whose worth time has 
proved. To specify them would merely be to 
write the catalogue of a good library. 

The thirteen years with which this century 
opened were the period in which John McCrae 
established himself in civil life in Montreal and 
in the profession of medicine. Of this period 
he has left a chronicle which is at once too long 
and too short. 

All lives are equally interesting if only we 
are in possession of all the facts. Places like 
Oxford and Cambridge have been made inter- 
esting because the people who live in them are 
in the habit of writing, and always write about 
each other. Family letters have little interest 
[ 123 ] 



Ube Civfl l^ears 

even for the family itself, if they consist merely 
of a recital of the trivial events of the day. 
They are prized for the unusual and for the 
sentiment they contain. Diaries also are dull 
unless they deal with selected incidents; and se- 
lection is the essence of every art. Few events 
have any interest in themselves, but any event 
can be made interesting by the pictorial or 
literary art. 

When he writes to his mother, that, as he was 
coming out of the college, an Irish setter pressed 
a cold nose against his hand, that is interesting 
because it is unusual. If he tells us that a pro- 
fessor took him by the arm, there is no interest 
in that to her or to any one else. For that 
reason the ample letters and diaries which cover 
these years need not detain us long. There is 
in them little selection, little art — too much 
professor and too little dog. 

It is, of course, the business of the essayist 
to select; but in the present case there is little 
to choose. He tells of invitations to dinner, 
accepted, evaded, or refused; but he does not 
always tell who were there, what he thought of 
them, or what they had to eat. Dinner at the 
Adami's, — supper at Ruttan's, — a night with 
Owen, — tea at the Reford's, — theatre with the 
Hickson's, — a reception at the Angus's, — or a 
dance at the Allan's, — these events would all 
[124] 



XTbe Civil l^ears 

be quite meaningless without an exposition of 
the social life of Montreal, which is too large a 
matter to undertake, alluring as the task would 
be. Even then, one would be giving one's own 
impressions and not his. 

Wherever he lived he was a social figure. 
When he sat at table the dinner was never dull. 
The entertainment he offered was not missed 
by the dullest intelligence. His contribution 
was merely "stories," and these stories in end- 
less succession were told in a spirit of frank fun. 
They were not illustrative, admonitory, or hor- 
tatory. They were just amusing, and always 
fresh. This gift he acquired from his mother, 
who had that rare charm of mimicry without 
mockery, and caricature without malice. In all 
his own letters there is not an unkind comment 
or tinge of ill-nature, although in places, espe- 
cially in later years, there is bitter indignation 
against those Canadian patriots who were pa- 
triots merely for their bellies' sake. 

Taken together his letters and diaries are a 
revelation of the heroic struggle by which a man 
gains a footing in a strange place in that most 
particular of all professions, a struggle compre- 
hended by those alone who have made the trial 
of it. And yet the method is simple. It is all 
disclosed in his words, "I have never refused 
any work that was given me to do." These 
[ 125 ] 



records are merely a chronicle of work. Out- 
door clinics, laboratory tasks, post-mortems, 
demonstrating, teaching, lecturing, attendance 
upon the sick in wards and homes, meetings, 
conventions, papers, addresses, editing, review- 
ing, — the very remembrance of such a career 
is enough to appall the stoutest heart. 

But John McCrae was never appalled. He 
went about his work gaily, never busy, never 
idle. Each minute was pressed into the service, 
and every hour was made to count. In the 
first eight months of practice he claims to have 
made ninety dollars. It is many years before 
we hear him complain of the drudgery of send- 
ing out accounts, and sighing for the services of 
a bookkeeper. This is the only complaint that 
appears in his letters. 

There were at the time in Montreal tv/o rival 
schools, and are yet two rival hospitals. But 
John McCrae was of no party. He was the 
friend of all men, and the confidant of many. 
He sought nothing for himself and by seeking 
not he found what he most desired. His mind 
was single and his intention pure; his acts un- 
sullied by selfish thought; his aim was true 
because it was steady and high. His aid was 
never sought for any cause that was unworthy, 
and those humorous eyes could see through the 
bones to the marrow of a scheme. In spite of 

[126 1 



trbe Civil l^ears 

his singular innocence, or rather by reason of 
it, he was the last man in the world to be imposed 
upon. 

In all this devastating labour he never neg- 
lected the assembling of himself together with 
those who write and those who paint Indeed, 
he had himself some small skill in line and col- 
our. His hands were the hands of an artist— too 
fine and small for a body that weighted i8o 
pounds, and measured more than five feet eleven 
inches in height. There was in Montreal an 
institution known as "The Pen and Pencil 
Club." No one now living remembers a time 
when it did not exist. It was a peculiar club. 
It contained no member who should not be in 
it; and no one was left out who should be in. 
The number was about a dozen. For twenty 
years the club met in Dyonnet's studio, and 
afterwards, as the result of some convulsion, 
m K. R. Macpherson's. A ceremonial supper 
was eaten once a year, at which one dressed the 
salad, one made the cofi'ee, and Harris sang a 
song. Here all pictures were first shown, and 
writings read— if they were not too long. If 
they were, there was in an adjoining room a tin 
chest, which in these austere days one remembers 
with refreshment. When John McCrae was 
offered membership he "grabbed at it," and 
the place was a home for the spirit wearied by 
[ 127] 



the week's work. There Brymner and the other 
artists would discourse upon writings, and Bur- 
gess and the other writers would discourse upon 
pictures. 

It is only with the greatest of resolution, 
fortified by lack of time and space, that I have 
kept myself to the main lines of his career, and 
refrained from following him into by-paths 
and secret, pleasant places; but 1 shall not be 
denied just one indulgence. In the great days 
when Lord Grey was Governor-General he 
formed a party to visit Prince Edward Island. 
The route was a circuitous one. It began at 
Ottawa; it extended to Winnipeg, down the 
Nelson River to York Factory, across Hudson 
Bay, down the Strait, by Belle Isle and New- 
foundland, and across the Gulf of St. Lawrence 
to a place called Orwell. Lord Grey in the 
matter of company had the reputation of do- 
ing himself well. John McCrae was of the 
party. It also included John Macnaughton, L. S. 
Amery, Lord Percy, Lord Lanesborough, and 
one or two others. The ship had called at North 
Sydney where Lady Grey and the Lady Evelyn 
joined. 

Through the place in a deep ravine runs an 
innocent stream which broadens out into still 
pools, dark under the alders. There was a rod 
— a very beautiful rod in two pieces. It excited 

ll28[ 



XTbe Civil l^ears 

his suspicion. It was put into his hand, the 
first stranger hand that ever held it; and the 
first cast showed that it was a worthy hand. 
The sea-trout were running that afternoon. 
Thirty years before, in that memorable visit 
to Scotland, he had been taken aside by "an 
old friend of his grandfather's." It was there 
he learned " to love the trooties." The love and 
the art never left him. It was at this same 
Orwell his brother first heard the world called 
to arms on that early August morning in 1914. 

In those civil years there were, of course, 
diversions: visits to the United States and 
meetings with notable men — Welch, Futcher, 
Hurd, White, Howard, Barker: voyages to 
Europe with a detailed itinerary upon the re- 
cord; walks and rides upon the mountain; 
excursion in winter to the woods, and in summer 
to the lakes; and one visit to the Packards in 
Maine, with the sea enthusiastically described. 
Upon those woodland excursions and upon 
many other adventures his companion is often 
referred to as "Billy T.," who can be no other 
than Lieut.-Col. W. G. Turner, "M.C." 

Much is left out of the diary that we would 
wish to have recorded. There is tantalizing 
mention of "conversations" with Shepherd — 
with Roddick — with Chipman — with Armstrong 
— with Gardner — with Martin — with Moyse. 
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Dea& In Ibis prime 

Occasionally there is a note of description: 
"James Mavor is a kindly genius with much 
knowledge"; "Tait McKenzie presided ideally" 
at a Shakespeare dinner; "Stephen Leacock 
does not keep all the good things for his pub- 
lisher." Those who know the life in Montreal 
may well for themselves supply the details. 

IX 

John McCrae left the front after the second 
battle of Ypres, and never returned. On June 
I St, 191 5,he was posted to No. 3 General Hospital 
at Boulogne, a most efficient unit organized by 
McGill University and commanded by that 
fine soldier Colonel H. S. Birkett, C.B. He 
was placed in charge of medicine, with the rank 
of Lieut.-Colonel as from April 17th, 191 5, and 
there he remained until his death. 

At first he did not relish the change. His 
heart was with the guns. He had transferred 
from the artillery to the medical service as re- 
cently as the previous autumn, and embarked 
a few days afterwards at Quebec, on the 29th 
of September, arriving at Davenport, October 
20th, 1 9 1 4. Although he was attached as Medical 
Officer to the ist Brigade of Artillery, he could 
not forget that he was no longer a gunner, and 
in those tumultuous days he was often to be 
found in the observation post rather than in 
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H)eaC> in Ibis {prime 

his dressing station. He had inherited some- 
thing of the old army superciliousness towards 
a "non-combatant" service, being unaware 
that in this war the battle casualties in the 
medical corps were to be higher than in any other 
arm of the service. From South Africa he 
wrote exactly fifteen years before: "I am glad 
that I am not 'a medical' out here. No ' R.A. 
M.C or any other 'M.C for me. There is a 
big breach, and the medicals are on the far side 
of it." On August 7th, 191 5, he writes from his 
hospital post, "I expect to wish often that I 
had stuck by the artillery." But he had no 
choice. 

Of this period of his service there is little 
written record. He merely did his work, and 
did it well, as he always did what his mind found 
to do. His health was failing. He suffered 
frorn the cold. A year before his death he 
writes on January 25th, 1917: 

The cruel cold is still holding. Everyone is suffering, 
and the men in the wards in bed cannot keep warm. I 
know of nothing so absolutely pitiless as weather. Let 
one wish ; let one pray ; do what one will ; still the same clear 
sky and no sign, — you know the cold brand of sunshine. 
For my own part I do not think I have ever been more 
uncomfortable. Everything is so cold that it hurts to pick 
it up. To go to bed is a nightmare and to get up a worse 
one. I have heard of cold weather in Europe, and how 
the poor suffer, — now I know ! 

[131I 



H)eaD in Ibis prime 

All his life he was a victim of asthma. The 
first definite attack was in the autumn of 1894, 
and the following winter it recurred with per- 
sistence. For the next five years his letters 
abound in references to the malady. After 
coming to Montreal it subsided; but he always 
felt that the enemy was around the corner. He 
had frequent periods in bed; but he enjoyed the 
relief from work and the occasion they afforded 
for rest and reading. 

In January, 19 18, minutes begin to appear 
upon his official file which were of great interest 
to him, and to us. Colonel Birkett had relin- 
quished command of the unit to resume his 
duties as Dean of the Medical Faculty of McGill 
University. He was succeeded by that veteran 
soldier, Colonel J. M. Elder, C.M.G. At the 
same time the command of No. i General Hospi- 
tal fell vacant. Lieut.-Colonel McCrae was 
required for that post; but a higher honour was 
in store, namely the place of Consultant to the 
British Armies in the Field. All these events, 
and the final great event, are best recorded in 
the austere official correspondence which I am 
permitted to extract from the files: 

From D.M.S. Canadian Contingents. (Major-General 
C. L. Foster, C.B.). To O.C No. 3 General Hospital, 
B.E.F., 13th December, 1917: There is a probability of 
the command of No. i General Hospital becoming vacant. 

[ 132] 



DeaO in Ibis iprlme 

It is requested, please, that you obtain from Lieut.-Col. 
J. McCrae his wishes in the matter. If he is available, 
and willing to take over this command, it is proposed to 
oflfer it to him. 

O.C. No. 3 General Hospital, B.E.F., To D.M.S. 
Canadian Contingents, 28th December, 191 7: Lieut.- 
Colonel McCrae desires me to say that, while he naturally 
looks forward to succeeding to the command of this 
unit, he is quite willing to comply with your desire, and 
will take command of No. i General Hospital at any time 
you may wish. 

D.G.M.S. British Armies in France. To D.M.S. Cana- 
dian Contingents, January 2nd, 191 8: It is proposed to 
appoint Lieut. -Colonel J. McCrae, now serving with No. 
3 Canadian General Hospital, Consulting Physician to 
the British Armies in France. Notification of this ap- 
pointment, when made, will be sent to you in due course. 

D.M.S. Canadian Contingents. To O.C. No. 3 General 
Hospital, B.E.F., January 5th, 1918: Since receiving your 
letter I have information from G.H.Q. that they will 
appoint a Consultant Physician to the British Armies in 
the Field, and have indicated their desire for Lieut.- 
Colonel McCrae for this duty. This is a much higher 
honour than commanding a General Hospital, and I hope 
he will take the post, as this is a position I have long 
wished should be filled by a C.A.M.C. officer. 

D.M.S. Canadian Contingents. To D.G.M.S., G.H.Q.^ 
2nd Echelon, January 15th, 1918: I fully concur in this 
appointment, and consider this officer will prove his ability 
as an able Consulting Physician. 

Telegram: D.G.M.S., G.H.Q., 2nd Echelon. To D.M. 
S.Canadian Contingents, January i8th,i9i8: Any objection 

[ 133 ] 



2)ea& in Ibis prime 

to Lieut.-Col. J. McCrae being appointed Consulting 
Physician to British Armies in France. If appointed, 
temporary rank of Colonel recommended. 

Telegram: O.C. No. 3 General Hospital, B.E.F. To 
D.M.S. Canadian Contingents, January 27th, 1918: Lieut.- 
Col. John McCrae seriously ill with pneumonia at No. 14 
General Hospital. 

Telegram: O.C. No. 14 General Hospital. To O.C. 
No. 3 General Hospital, B.E.F. , January 28th, 191 8: Lieut.- 
Col. John McCrae died this morning. 

This was the end. For him the war was fin- 
ished and all the glory of the world had passed . 

Henceforth we are concerned not with the 
letters he wrote, but with the letters which were 
written about him. They came from all quar- 
ters, literally in hundreds, all inspired by pure 
sympathy, but some tinged with a curiosity 
which it is hoped this writing will do something 
to assuage. 

Let us first confine ourselves to the facts. 
They are all contained in a letter which Colonel 
Elder wrote to myself in common with other 
friends. On Wednesday, January 23rd, he was 
as usual in the morning; but in the afternoon 
Colonel Elder found him asleep in his chair in 
the mess room. " 1 have a slight headache," 
he said. He went to his quarters. In the 
evening he was worse, but had no increase of 
temperature, no acceleration of pulse or respira- 
I134I 



DeaD in Ibis prime 

tion. At this moment the order arrived for 
him to proceed forthwith as Consulting Physi- 
cian of the First Army. Colonel Elder writes, 
" I read the order to him, and told him I should 
announce the contents at mess. He was very 
much pleased over the appointment. We dis- 
cussed the matter at some length, and 1 took 
his advice upon measures for carrying on the 
medical work of the unit." 

Next morning he was sleeping soundly, but 
later on he professed to be much better. He had 
no fever, no cough, no pain. In the afternoon 
he sent for Colonel Elder, and announced that 
he had pneumonia. There were no signs in the 
chest; but the microscope revealed certain or- 
ganisms which rather confirmed the diagnosis. 
The temperature was rising. Sir Bertrand 
Dawson was sent for. He came by evening 
from Wimereux, but he could discover no physi- 
cal signs. In the night the temperature con- 
tinued to rise, and he complained of headache. 
He was restless until the morning, "when he 
fell into a calm, untroubled sleep." 

Next morning, being Friday, he was removed 
by ambulance to No. 14 General Hospital at 
Wimereux. In the evening news came that he 
was better; by the morning the report was 
good, a lowered temperature and normal pulse. 
In the afternoon the condition grew worse; 
[ 135 ] 



2)ea& In Ibis prime 

there were signs of cerebral irritation with a 
rapid, irregular pulse; his mind was quickly 
clouded. Early on Sunday morning the tem- 
perature dropped, and the heart grew weak; 
there was an intense sleepiness. During the 
day the sleep increased to coma, and all knew 
the end was near. 

His friends had gathered. The choicest of 
the profession was there, but they were help- 
less. He remained unconscious, and died at 
half past one on Monday morning. The cause 
of death was double pneumonia with massive 
cerebral infection. Colonel Elder's letter con- 
cludes: "We packed his effects in a large box, 
everything that we thought should go to his 
people, and Gow took it with him to England 
to-day." Walter Gow was his cousin, a son 
of that Gow who sailed with the Eckfords from 
Glasgow in the Clutha. At the time he was 
Deputy Minister in London of the Overseas 
Military Forces of Canada. He had been sent 
for but arrived too late; — all was so sudden. 

The funeral was held on Tuesday afternoon, 
January 29th, at the cemetery in Wimereux. 
The burial was made with full military pomp. 
From the Canadian Corps came Lieut.-General 
Sir Arthur Currie, the General Officer Command- 
ing; Major-General E. W. B. Morrison, and 
Brigadier-General W. O. H. Dodds, of the Artil- 
[136] 



Dea& in Ibis prime 

lery. Sir A. T, Sloggett, the Director-General 
of Medical Services, and his Staff were waiting 
at the grave. All Commanding Officers at the 
Base, and all Deputy Directors were there. 
There was also a deputation from the Harvard 
Unit headed by Harvey Gushing. 

Bonfire went first, led by two grooms, and 
decked in the regulation white ribbon, not the 
least pathetic figure in the sad procession. A 
hundred nursing Sisters in caps and veils stood 
in line, and then proceeded in ambulances 
to the cemetery, where they lined up again. 
Seventy-five of the personnel from the Hospital 
acted as escort, and six Sergeants bore the coffin 
from the gates to the grave. The firing party 
was in its place. Then followed the chief 
mourners, Golonel Elder and Sir Bertrand Daw- 
son; and in their due order, the rank and file 
of No. 3 with their officers; the rank and file of 
No. 14 with their officers; all officers from the 
Base, with Major-General Wilberforce and the 
Deputy Directors to complete. 

It was a springtime day, and those who have 
passed all those winters in France and in Flan- 
ders will know how lovely the springtime may 
be. So we may leave him, "on this sunny slope, 
facing the sunset and the sea." These are the 
words used by one of the nurses in a letter to a 
friend, — those women from whom no heart is hid. 
[ 137] 



DeaO in Ibis prime 

She also adds: "The nurses lamented that he 
became unconscious so quickly they could not 
tell him how much they cared. To the funeral 
all came as we did, because we loved him so." 

At first there was the hush of grief and the 
silence of sudden shock. Then there was an 
outbreak of eulogy, of appraisement, and sorrow. 
No attempt shall be made to reproduce it here; 
but one or two voices may be recorded in so 
far as in disjointed words they speak for all. 
Stephen Leacock, for those who write, tells of 
his high vitality and splendid vigour — his career 
of honour and marked distinction — his life filled 
with honourable endeavour and instinct with 
the sense of duty — a sane and equable tempera- 
ment — whatever he did, filled with sure purpose 
and swift conviction. 

Dr. A. D. Blackader, acting Dean of the 
Medical Faculty of McGill University, himself 
speaking from out of the shadow, thus appraises 
his worth: "As a teacher, trusted and beloved; 
as a colleague, sincere and cordial; as a physi- 
cian, faithful, cheerful, kind. An unkind word 
he never uttered." Oskar Klotz, himself a 
student, testifies that the relationship was es- 
sentially one of master and pupil. From the 
head of his first department at McGill, Profes- 
sor, now Colonel, Adami, comes the weighty 
phrase, that he was sound in diagnosis; as a 
1 138] 



DcaD in Ibis prime 

teacher inspiring; that few could rise to his 
high level of service. 

There is yet a deeper aspect of this character 
with which we are concerned; but I shrink from 
making the exposition, fearing lest with my 
heavy literary tread 1 might destroy more than 
I should discover. When one stands by the 
holy place wherein dwells a dead friend's soul 
— the word would slip out at last — it becomes 
him to take off the shoes from off his feet. But 
fortunately the dilemma does not arise. The 
task has already been performed by one who by 
God has been endowed with the religious sense, 
and by nature enriched with the gift of expres- 
sion; one who in his high calling has long been 
acquainted with the grief of others, and is now 
himself a man of sorrow, having seen with 
understanding eyes, 

These great days range like tides, 
And leave our dead on every shore. 

On February 14th, 1918, a Memorial Ser- 
vice was held in the Royal Victoria College. 
Principal Sir William Peterson presided. John 
Macnaughton gave the address in his own lovely 
and inimitable words, to commemorate one whom 
he lamented, "so young and strong, in the 
prime of life, in the full ripeness of his fine 
powers, his season of fruit and flower bearing. 
[139I 



Dea5 in Ibis prime 

He never lost the simple faith of his childhood. 
He was so sure about the main things, the vast 
things, the indispensable things, of which all 
formulated faiths are but a more or less stam- 
mering expression, that he was content with the 
rough embodiment in which his ancestors had 
laboured to bring those great realities to bear 
as beneficent and propulsive forces upon their 
own and their children's minds and consciences. 
His instinctive faith sufficed him." 

To his own students John McCrae once 
quoted the legend from a picture, to him "the 
most suggestive picture in the world": What I 
spent I had: what 1 saved I lost: what 1 gave 
I have; — and he added: "It will be in your 
power every day to store up for yourselves 
treasures that will come back to you in the 
consciousness of duty well done, of kind acts 
performed, things that having given away freely 
you yet possess. It has often seemed to me 
that when in the Judgement those surprised 
faces look up and say, Lord, when saw we Thee 
anhungered and fed Thee; or thirsty and gave 
Thee drink; a stranger, and took Thee in; 
naked and clothed Thee; and there meets them 
that warrant-royal of all charity, Inasmuch as 
ye did it unto one of the least of these, ye have 
done it unto Me, there will be amongst those 
awed ones many a practitioner of medicine." 
[ 140] 



Deat> in Ibis Berime 

And finally I shall conclude this task to which 
I have set a worn but willing hand, by using 
again the words which once 1 used before: 
Beyond all consideration of his intellectual 
attainments John McCrae was the well beloved 
of his friends. He will be missed in his place; 
and wherever his companions assemble there 
will be for them a new poignancy in the Miltonic 
phrase, 

But O the heavy change, now thou art gone, 
Now thou art gone, and never must return! 

London, 

nth November, 191 8. 



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